THE    PHILOSOPHY   OF   ART 


THE 

PHILOSOPHY   OF  ART 

THE    MEANING    AND    RELATIONS    OF 

SCULPTURE,  PAINTING,  POETRY 

AND  MUSIC 


BY 
EDWARD    HOWARD    GRIGGS 


NEW    YORK 
B.    W.    HUEBSCH 

1913 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
EDWARD  HOWARD  GRIGGS 


PRINTED   IN   U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION     ...         7 

CHAPTER 

I.  THE  EXPRESSION  OF  HUMAN  LIFE  IN  ART  ....  21 

II.  THE  INTERPRETATION  OF  HUMAN  LIFE  IN  ART  .     .  41 

III.  PRIMITIVE   SOURCES  OF   ART 57 

IV.  DEFINING  FORCES  BEHIND  ART:  THE  ARTIST  ...  81 

V.  THE    DEVELOPMENT   OF   THE    ARTIST   AS    REVEALED 

IN  ART 103 

VI.  DEFINING  FORCES  BEHIND  ART:  THE  EPOCH     .    .  115 
.  DEFINING  FORCES  BEHIND  ART:  THE  RACE     .    .     .  109 
VIII.  THE  UNIQUE  FUNCTION  OF  EACH  FINE  ART  .     .  141 
IX.  THE  MEANING  AND  FUNCTION  OF  SCULPTURE     .     .  151 
X.  THE  MEANING  AND  FUNCTION  OF  PAINTING  .    .    .171 
XI.  THE  MEANING  AND    FUNCTION  OF  Music  ....  189 

XII.   MUSIC     AND    THE     SPIRIT 213 

XIII.  THE   MEANING    AND    FUNCTION   OF   POETRY:   THE 

RELATION     OF     POETRY     TO     SCULPTURE     AND 
PAINTING 229 

XIV.  THE    MEANING   AND   FUNCTION   OF   POETRY:   THE 

RELATION  OF  POETRY  TO  Music 247 

5 


281669 


6  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XV.  THE   UNITY  or  THE  ARTS 267 

XVI.  THE  DANGERS  OF  ART 277 

XVII.  BEAUTY  AND  THE  LIFE  OF  APPRECIATION    ....  287 
XVIII.  THE  STUDY  OF  BEAUTY  IN  NATURE  AND  ART  .     .    .  301 

XIX.  ART  FOR   LIFE'S  SAKE 321 

BOOK    LIST 331 

INDEX    .  .  341 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 


INTRODUCTION 

aim  of  this  study  is  to  show  what 
art  is,  how  it  comes  out  of  the  life  of 
man,  and  what  specific  function  each  of 
the  great  ideal  arts  fulfills  in  relation  to  the 
human  spirit.  There  is  great  need  of  such 
study  to-day.  We  in  America  have  been  turn- 
ing with  remarkable  interest  and  enthusiasm 
to  all  fields  of  art  and  intellect.  It  would  seem 
that  the  splendid  energy  which  has  built  up 
our  wonderful  material  civilization  is  now 
to  find  expression  in  the  life  of  the  spirit,  with 
the  promise  of  equally  great  achievement  there. 
There  is  scarcely  an  important  city  in  the  land 
that  has  not  at  least  the  beginnings  of  a  mu- 
seum of  sculpture  and  painting.  Opportuni- 
ties for  hearing  great  music  have  been  multi- 
plied several  times  within  a  few  decades.  Gifts 
to  education  and  to  all  aspects  of  culture  have 
increased  enormously ;  while  even  more  signifi- 
cant of  our  spirit  is  the  extent  to  which  we  send 

7 


8  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

our  students  abroad.  In  any  European  school 
of  fine  art  at  least  half  the  students  not  native 
to  the  country  in  question  are  American.  In 
other  words,  we  send  to  foreign  schools  more 
students  than  all  the  other  nations  taken  to- 
gether. Of  course,  we  ought  to  do  so,  for  we 
are  a  youthful  people  and  need  to  learn  from 
the  accumulated  culture  of  the  older  world; 
but  the  significance  of  our  action  is  no  less 
great.  All  these  signs,  with  the  increasing  pat- 
ronage of  the  arts  by  wealth  and  power,  mean 
much  for  our  happiness,  our  culture  as  a  peo- 
ple and  our  contribution  to  the  world. 

Unfortunately  this  great  movement  is  sadly 
hampered  by  ignorance  and,  worse,  by  fla- 
grant misconceptions  as  to  the  meaning  and 
function  of  the  arts.  Turn  to  the  literature  of 
the  subject:  there  is  admirable  material  on  the 
technical  aspects  of  the  arts,  and  excellent  his- 
tory and  criticism;  but  where  is  any  adequate 
study  of  the  specific  power  and  limitations  of 
each  of  the  arts  in  expressing  and  interpreting 
the  human  spirit?  Lessing's  Laokoon  is  still 
the  best  book  we  have  on  the  subject;  while  it 
is  far  behind  the  experience  and  what  ought  to 
be  the  thinking  of  our  time,  and  attempted  at 


INTRODUCTION  9 

most  only  to  define  the  mutual  limits  of  the 
plastic  arts  and  poetry.  Really  the  great 
books  in  the  field  we  are  attempting  include 
hardly  more  besides  Lessing's  than  Leonardo's 
Note  Books,  Wagner's  writings  and  Schiller's 
^Esthetic  Essays. 

Worse  than  the  ignorance  and  lack  of 
thought  are  the  prevailing  misconceptions. 
The  most  widely  accepted  of  these  is  in  the 
mind  of  the  general  public.  It  is  the  notion 
that  art  is  a  dispensable  luxury,  a  polite  adorn- 
ment of  life,  pleasant  enough  where  there  is 
ample  wealth  and  leisure,  but  of  no  value  until 
the  serious  business  of  life  is  fulfilled.  Utterly 
wrong  as  this  notion  is,  it  is  nevertheless  taken 
for  granted  by  the  multitude,  not  only  in  the 
unthinking  mass,  but  in  circles  of  wealth,  so- 
cial prominence  and  even  of  supposed  culture. 
Indeed,  the  fault  is  old  and  long  enduring, 
for  the  cry  of  the  artist  in  all  epochs  has  been 
that  his  work  is  not  taken  as  the  serious  aim 
of  life  it  is,  but  as  an  adventitious  adornment 
of  the  more  or  less  superficial  amenities  of  so- 
cial existence.  Carlyle  voices  this  in  Teufels- 
drockh  who  resents  being  made  polite  fringe 
on  Lady  Somebody's  "^Esthetic  Tea;"  while 


10  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Goethe's  study  of  the  behavior  of  the  emperor 
and  court  toward  Helena  in  the  Second  Part 
of  Faust  is  the  most  scathing  portrayal  I  know 
in  literature  of  the  whimsical  reaction  of  the 
world  of  polite  society  on  the  miraculous  crea- 
tion of  beauty  which  should  inspire  silent  awe. 

How  prevalent  the  same  attitude  is  to-day ! 
Consider  the  behavior  of  persons  wandering 
through  a  gallery  of  painting,  saying,  "I  like 
this"  or  "dislike  that,"  as  if  they  had  the  right 
to  like  or  dislike  until  they  have  appreciated 
and  understood  what  of  human  thought  and 
feeling  is  given,  and  with  what  measure  of 
adequacy  and  harmony.  Go  to  the  Metropoli- 
tan Opera  House  in  New  York,  when  some 
masterpiece  of  Wagner  is  given.  Where  do 
you  find  the  true  music  lovers  ?  Oh,  everywhere, 
of  course — one  wants  to  be  fair — but  many  of 
them  are  standing  up  in  the  top  gallery ;  while, 
of  the  high-priced  boxes  in  the  great  oval, 
many  are  empty  the  first  hour  and  empty  the 
last  half  hour — society  displaying  itself  and  its 
clothes  as  at  any  other  function,  with  no  no- 
tion of  the  attitude  necessary  to  the  creation 
and  appreciation  of  true  art. 

There  is,  of  course,  another  side  to  this  which 


INTRODUCTION  11 

all  great  artists  have  understood:  art  can  have 
no  higher  function  than  in  transfiguring  the 
life  of  this  moment.  What  is  posterity  if  not 
men  and  women  such  as  we,  and  why  should 
the  artist  work  for  some  future  time  and  not 
for  the  living  world  about  him?  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  painter  of  perhaps  the  greatest  picture 
the  world  has  seen — the  ruined  masterpiece  on 
Milan  monastery  wall — was  willing  to  use  his 
unparalleled  genius  to  prepare  some  masque  or 
other  artistic  pleasure  for  the  court  circle  at 
Milan,  given  once  and  never  repeated;  and 
Goethe  himself  was  glad  to  employ  the  genius 
that  created  Faust  in  some  like  service  for  the 
group  at  Weimar.  When,  however,  art  is 
made  a  mere  pleasant  fringe  and  polite  decora- 
tion to  the  more  or  less  superficial  and  often 
frivolous  activities  of  social  life,  the  wrong 
thing  is  taken  for  the  center  and  art  is  pros- 
tituted. 

A  second  error,  only  less  harmful  than  the 
first,  prevails  also  in  the  mind  of  the  public, 
though  not  so  widely*  It  is  very  good  persons 
who  make  this  mistake,  often  with  fanatical 
earnestness.  Their  error  is  in  holding  that 
art  is  justified  by  some  obvious  didactic  moral 


12  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

teaching.  They  accept  the  drama  or  novel  if 
it  preaches  some  sermon,  the  painting  if  it 
carries  a  moral  lesson.  Goethe  has  sufficiently 
characterized  this  point  of  view.  He  says:  "A 
good  work  of  art  can,  and  will  indeed,  have 
moral  consequences ;  but  to  require  moral  ends 
of  the  artist,  is  to  destroy  his  profession."* 
"To  destroy  his  profession":  the  phrase  is  not 
too  strong.  In  so  far  as  the  artist  becomes 
preacher  he  is  apt  to  cease  to  be  artist,  since 
his  didactic  moral  is  so  much  more  limited  than 
the  aim  of  art,  which  is  the  presentation  of  the 
whole  truth  of  life  in  a  form  of  beauty.  JTlie 
artist  must  strive  for  the  abiding  truth  rather 
than  its  changing  application.  If  he  deals  with 
the  issue  of  the  hour,  it  must  be  in  no  narrow 
partisan  spirit,  but  with  the  vision  of  the  eter- 
nal through  the  transient.  Compare  Charles 
Kingsley's  Alton  Locke  with  Goethe's  Wit- 
helm  Meister  to  see  the  difference  between  the 
literature  of  propagandism,  even  of  superior 
excellence,  and  art.  A  certain  withdrawal 
from  life  and  its  feverish  conflicts  is  always 

*  Denn  ein  gutes  Kunstwerk  kann  und  wird  zwar  moral- 
ische  Folgen  haben,  aber  moralische  Zwecke  vom  Kunstler 
fordern,  heiszt  ihm  sein  Handwerk  verderben." — Dichtung 
und  Wahrheit,  book  XII,  Bohn  Library  translation,  p.  469. 


INTRODUCTION  13 

necessary  for  the  artist  that  he  may  have  per- 
spectiye.  To  create  art  one  must  have  lived, 
but  to  create  art  one  must  also  have  withdrawn 
from  life  to  the  mountain  height  of  spiritual 
isolation.  Thus  always  the  loneliness  and  pain 
of  the  great  artist:  sometimes  it  finds  tender 
and  sad  expression  as  in  Shelley  and  Chopin; 
sometimes  it  causes  the  despairing  reaction  of 
a  Leopardi  or  a  Schopenhauer;  sometimes  it 
produces  the  grave  irony  of  a  Goethe  or  a 
Wagner;  but  always  it  is  present,  and  the 
vision  of  the  artist  is  bought  with  the  pain  of 
being  consciously  apart. 

Thus  the  true  moral  value  of  a  work  of  art 
is  in  the  nature  of  the  work  itself,  not  in  an 
JQsop  Fables'  moral  appended  at  the  end. 
Suppose  Shakespeare  had  affixed  to  Othello 
a  statement  that  he  had  meant  to  teach  us  the 
ugliness  of  jealousy:  what  a  pitiful  anti-climax 
it  would  have  been!  If  the  moral  meaning  is 
not  involved  in  the  very  nature  of  a  work  of  art, 
then  it  is  bad  art.  No,  art  is  not  for  preach- 
ing's sake,  any  more  than  it  is  for  adornment's 
sake;  and  many  of  the  "good"  people  are  as 
far  wrong  as  the  frivolous. 

These  two  errors  in  the  public  mind  have 


14  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

helped  breed  a  third,  prevailing  among  artists 
themselves — the  notion  that  art  exists  for  the 
sake  of  exhibiting  technical  skill  in  the  mas- 
tery of  difficulties.  The  great  men  have  never 
made  this  mistake :  they  invariably  have  recog- 
nized that  technical  skill  is  never  an  end  at  all, 
but  always  a  means — a  glorious  one — to  some- 
thing beyond  itself;  but  among  lesser  artists 
the  superstition  is  widely  prevalent. 

It  is  easy  to  see  how  it  arises;  Probably 
there  never  was  an  earnest  student  beginning 
to  learn  a  particular  art  who  did  not  look  for- 
ward to  creating  his  masterpiece.  The  young 
poet  dreams  of  his  Divine  Comedy  or  Faust, 
the  painter,  of  the  ceiling  of  some  new  Sistine 
Chapel,  the  musician,  of  compositions  that  shall 
rival  Beethoven,  the  sculptor,  of  his  new  Per- 
iclean  marbles  and  his  brooding  figures  on 
fresh  Medicean  tombs.  With  such  aspirations 
invariably  the  student  begins;  but  what  hap- 
pens? Soon  he  discovers  that  the  road  he  must 
travel  is  painfully  long  and  beset  with  hard 
obstacles.  The  embryonic  painter,  for  exam- 
ple, finds  he  must  wholly  subordinate  his  own 
ideas,  draw  for  years  from  the  antique  before 
he  is  allowed  even  to  begin  to  copy  nature. 


INTRODUCTION  15 

Only  after  long  discipline  in  drawing  may  he 
add  color,  and  how  long  is  the  road  before 
any  self-expression  is  permitted.  Thus  he  is 
apt  to  forget  all  about  the  end  which  originally 
he  had  in  view,  and  become  absorbed  wholly 
in  conquering  the  difficulties  in  the  path.  To 
acquire  and  exhibit  such  skill  comes  more  and 
more  to  seem  itself  the  aim. 

The  just  reaction  against  seeking  an  adven- 
titious end  for  art  accentuates  this  tendency. 
I  have  always  sympathized  with  the  painters' 
protest  against  such  a  view  of  their  art  as 
Ruskin  preached.  Ruskin's  work  was  strong 
and  permanently  helpful ;  but  in  all  his  study 
of  painting  he  sought  some  definitely  moral  or 
religious  end  in  the  effect  of  the  art ;  yet  beauty 
is  its  own  sufficient  justification;  art  need  seek 
no  end  outside  itself;  and  thus  arises  the  cry 
"art  for  art's  sake."  On  a  high  plane  this  is 
right ;  but  when  art  for  art's  sake  is  interpreted 
to  mean  art  for  technique's  sake — for  the  sake 
of  exhibiting  technical  skill  in  mastering  diffi- 
culties— then  art  is  reduced  to  the  level  of  a 
juggler's  tricks  or  refined  gymnastic.  To  walk 
a  tight  rope  without  a  balancing  pole  shows 
admirable  technical  skill,  but  surely  it  is  not 


16  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

fine  art  in  the  same  sense  as  painting  or  musie. 
Technical  skill,  excellent  and  desirable  as  it  i«, 
is  always  a  means  and  never  an  end  in  it  > 
and  the  exhibition  of  it  merely  evidences  power 
which  is  vain  unless  used  for  some  aim  worth 
while. 

The  third  error  is  thus  as  far  from  the  truth 
as  either  of  the  others ;  yet  one  would  scarcely 
believe  how  prevalent  it  is  among  the  rank  and 
file  of  artists.  Listen  to  a  group  of  painters 
commenting  upon  the  pictures  of  a  gallery. 
Of  what  do  they  speak:  of  the  way  that  land- 
scape rests  and  calms  the  spirit;  of  the  sweep 
of  humanity  in  this  portrayal  of  common  life? 
No;  but  of  the  skill  with  which  the  lighting  is 
handled  here;  the  fault  in  the  composition 
there;  the  method  of  putting  on  his  colors 
which  this  painter  has  employed.  It  is  natural : 
they  are  constantly  working  with  these  tech- 
nical problems,  and  thus  they  look  for  the 
handling  of  them  in  the  work  of  others.  The 
result,  however,  is  the  focussing  of  their  atten- 
tion almost  wholly  on  the  means  employed. 

Sit  behind  a  group  of  musical  artists  during 
the  rendering  of  a  Beethoven  symphony  or  a 
Wagner  opera.  Do  they  speak  of  the  power 


INTRODUCTION  17 

if  the  music  to  sweep  one  cut  on  to  the  bosom 
of  the  sea  of  emotion,  to  refresh  the  spirit  and 
\we  the  vision  of  the  ideal?  No,  but  of  the 
skill  with  which  that  high  note  was  struck; 
the  admirable  rendering  of  this  difficult  pas- 
sage by  the  violins;  the  fault  in  the  conductor's 
reading  of  that  other  passage.  Indeed,  it  is 
even  possible  for  the  mind  to  become  so  ab- 
sorbed in  the  analysis  of  technique  as  actually 
to  lose  in  power  of  appreciation.  One  finds 
cases  where  a  student  has  worked  ten  years  in 
mastering  the  technique  of  an  art,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  time  has  really  less  power  to  appre- 
ciate spontaneously  the  art  than  when  he  be- 
gan his  study.  This  need  not  happen  and  ought 
not  to  happen,  but  the  fact  that  it  does  occur 
shows  how  far  the  mastery  and  exhibition  of 
technical  skill  is  from  the  true  aim  of  art. 
No,  art  is  not  for  technique's  sake,  any  more 
than  it  is  for  adornment's  sake,  or  preaching's 
sake.  /  These  three  misconceptions  stand  in  the 
way  of  our  right  use  of  art  to-day,  and  we  must 
overcome  them  to  make  our  contribution  as 
a  people  and  to  give  art  the  place  it  should 
occupy  in  our  culture.  Art  is  serious  business ; 
beauty  is  the  most  useful  thing  we  know;  the 


18  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

ideal  is  no  less  real  than  the  coarsest  material 
/end.    Art  is  for  life's  sake. 
I      There  are  thus  three  underlying  questions 
/    in  the  study  here  undertaken:  first,  What  is 
Art?    Second,  What  does  Art  do  to  the  artist 
who  creates?    Third,  What  does  Art  do  to  the 
student  who  appreciates?     The  study  deals 
primarily  with  the  four  great  ideal  types  of 
art — sculpture,   painting,  music  and  poetry. 
Architecture,  so  largely  conditioned  by  utility, 
will  be  considered  in  comparison,  as  will  the 
composite   arts — song,   opera,   dramatic   por- 
trayal. 

The  method  employed  is  not  a  review  of 
philosophy  and  criticism  of  art,  but  a  study  of 
selected  masterpieces  in  each  field,  asking  what 
these  do  to  our  senses,  emotions,  imagination 
and  intellect.  This  is  merely  applying  to  the 
realm  of  art  the  method  universally  insisted 
upon  in  all  natural  science,  namely,  first  find- 
ing the  facts  and  then  seeking  to  discover  what 
these  mean.  In  art,  as  in  science,  a  little  direct, 
first-hand  study  is  worth  more  than  much  read- 
ing of  theory.  In  this  work,  if  I  may  speak 
personally,  what  I  have  to  offer  is  at  least  my 
own — not  a  restatement  of  criticism  and  philos- 


INTRODUCTION  19 

ophy,  but  the  condensed  result  of  twenty-five 
years'  study  of  works  of  art  in  each  of  the  four 
fields,  recording  and  interpreting  what  these 
masterpieces  have  done  to  my  senses,  emotions, 
imagination  and  intellect.  The  same  method 
must  be  employed  by  each  student  if  he  would 
arrive  at  clear  conceptions  of  the  meaning  and 
function  of  these  several  fine  arts ;  and  the  re- 
flections and  conclusions  tentatively  offered  in 
the  following  chapters  should  be  used  as  a  chal- 
lenge to  the  reader's  own  mind,  on  the  basis  of 
his  own  first-hand  study  of  masterpieces  in  the 
respective  fields. 


"I  believe  in  God,  Mozart,  and  Beethoven,  and  in  their 
disciples  and  apostles;  I  believe  in  the  Holy  Ghost  and  the 
truth  of  Art — one  and  indivisible;  I  believe  that  this  art 
proceeds  from  God  and  dwells  in  the  hearts  of  all  enlight- 
ened men;  I  believe  that  whoever  has  revelled  in  the  glori- 
ous joys  of  this  high  art  must  be  forever  devoted  to  it  and 
can  never  repudiate  it;  I  believe  that  all  may  become  blessed 
through  this  art,  and  that  therefore  it  is  permitted  to  any  one 
to  die  of  hunger  for  its  sake;  I  believe  that  I  shall  become 
most  happy  through  death;  I  believe  that  I  have  been  on 
earth  a  discordant  chord,  that  shall  be  made  harmonious  and 
clear  by  death.  I  believe  in  a  last  judgment,  that  shall  fear- 
fully damn  all  those  who  have  dared  on  this  earth  to  make 
profit  out  of  this  chaste  and  holy  art — who  have  disgraced  it 
and  dishonored  it  through  badness  of  heart  and  the  coarse 
instincts  of  sensuality;  I  believe  that  such  men  will  be  con- 
demned to  hear  their  own  music  through  all  eternity.  I  be- 
lieve, on  the  other  hand,  that  the  true  disciples  of  pure  art 
will  be  glorified  in  a  divine  atmosphere  of  sun-illumined,  fra- 
grant concords,  and  united  eternally  with  the  divine  source 
of  all  harmony.  And  may  a  merciful  lot  be  granted  me! 
Amen !"— Wagner,  in  "An  End  in  Paris,"  Art  Life  and  The- 
ories, p.  90. 


20 


CHAPTER    I 

THE  EXPRESSION  OF  HUMAN  LIFE  IN 
ART 

WHEN  we  consider  what  has  been  ac- 
complished in  the  field  of  art  our  first 
impression  is  of  so  overwhelming  a 
wealth  and  variety  that  it  seems  impossible  to 
gather  it  all  in  a  single  statement.  How  shall 
we  define  art  so  as  to  include  works  as  re- 
mote from  each  other  as  the  Ramayana  and 
the  songs  of  Burns,  the  ceiling  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel  and  the  music  of  Chopin,  the  Poem  of 
Job  and  the  frescoes  of  Andrea  del  Sarto? 
Can  it  be  possible  to  find  a  unifying  principle 
for  all  these?  The  problem  is  bewildering; 
yet  we  individually  may  respond  to  oil  these 
types  of  art ;  they  all  are  our  heritage.  Thus, 
there  must  be  some  element  common  to  them 
all  to  make  possible  the  universal  human 
appeal. 

To  find  this  element,  turn  for  a  moment  to  a 
brief  poem  coming  from  a  time  as  remote  as 

21 


22  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

possible  from  our  own,  a  Hymn  to  the  Dawn 
from  the  ancient  Vedic  literature: 

To  THE  DAWN  * 

"She  shines  upon  us  like  a  young  wife,  rousing 
every  living  being  to  go  to  his  work.  The  fire  had 
to  be  kindled  by  men ;  she  brought  light  by  striking 
down  darkness. 

She  rose  up,  spreading  far  and  wide,  and  moving 
toward  every  one.  She  -grew  in  brightness,  wearing 
her  brilliant  garment.  The  mother  of  the  cows  (of 
the  morning  clouds),  the  leader  of  the  days,  she 
shone  gold-colored,  lovely  to  behold. 

She,  the  fortunate,  who  brings  the  eye  of  the  god, 
who  leads  the  white  and  lovely  steed  (of  the  sun), 
the  Dawn  was  seen,  revealed  by  her  rays,  with  bril- 
liant treasures  she  follows  every  one. 

Thou,  who  art  a  blessing  where  thou  art  near, 
drive  away  the  unfriendly;  make  the  pastures  wide, 
give  us  safety !  Remove  the  haters,  bring  treasures  ! 
Raise  up  wealth  to  the  worshiper,  thou  mighty 
Dawn. 

Shine  for  us  with  thy  best  rays,  thou  bright 
Dawn,  thou  who  lengthenest  our  life,  thou  the  love 
of  all,  who  givest  us  food,  who  givest  us  wealth  in 
cows,  horses  and  chariots. 

*  F.  M.  Mueller,  A  History  of  Sanskrit  Literature,  pp. 
551  and  552.  Williams  &  Norgate,  London,  1860. 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       23 

Thou,  daughter  of  the  sky,  thou  high-born 
Dawn,  whom  the  Vasishthas  magnify  with  songs, 
give  us  riches  high  and  wide:  all  ye  gods,  protect  us 
always  with  your  blessings !" 

Our  first  impression  from  this  old  song  is 
one  of  strangeness.  Far  as  it  is  from  us  in 
time,  it  is  still  farther  from  our  way  of  thought 
and  life.  We  do  not  worship  the  Dawn,  it 
is  not  a  goddess  to  us.  Moreover,  with  our 
way  of  life,  we  rarely  see  the  Dawn;  yet 
read  more  closely,  and  the  feeling  of  re- 
moteness vanishes.  After  all,  the  old  poet 
is  merely  recording,  under  different  expres- 
sions, universal  experience.  Light  is  always 
a  miracle  to  a  fresh  mind.  It  is  not  that  "God 
said,  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  light;" 
God  says,  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  is  light, 
with  each  morning.  The  spreading  of  the  rosy 
fingers  of  the  Dawn  over  the  sky,  the  "grow- 
ing in  brightness,"  the  "bringing  the  eye  of 
the  god,"  the  sun — is  it  not  an  ever  fresh 
miracle?  The  fire  on  the  hearth  "had  to  be 
kindled  by  men" — by  hard  labor  in  primitive 
times,  striking  one  stone  upon  another  or  rub- 
bing two  sticks  together;  "she  brought  light  by 


24  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

striking  down  darkness."  The  housewife  of 
the  home  moves  toward  this  person  or  that 
one;  this  housewife  of  the  sky  "moves  toward 
every  one,"  "rousing  every  living  being  to  go 
to  his  work,"  this  "mother  of  the  cows" — the 
light  morning  clouds  that  promise  the  life- 
giving  milk  of  the  rain.  The  earthly  woman  is 
revealed  by  light  shining  upon  her;  this  god- 
dess of  the  sky  is  "revealed  by  her  rays," 
"lovely  to  behold."  Is  it  not  just  what  any 
unspoiled  nature,  with  fresh  awakened  senses, 
sees  in  the  Dawn? 

Then,  changing  the  key,  the  universal  mean- 
ing of  light  to  the  spirit  of  man  is  given. 
Light  has  always  been  the  symbol  of  safety 
and  goodness,  darkness  of  evil  and  danger. 
Little  children  still  cry  in  the  dark;  and  men, 
children  of  a  larger  growth,  still  tremble  be- 
fore the  darkness  that  shrouds  the  unknown. 
So  the  eternal  prayer:  "Drive  away  the  un- 
friendly," "give  us  safety,"  "thou  who  art  a 
blessing  where  thou  art  near;"  and,  as  the  day 
gives  opportunity  for  work,  "raise  up  wealth 
to  the  worshiper,  thou  mighty  Dawn."  Thus, 
in  other  language,  the  poem  gives  simply  and 
in  the  metaphor  of  strong,  direct  appreciation, 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       25 

the  two  permanent  aspects  of  man's  relation 
to  the  everlasting  miracle  of  light. 

Thus  it  is  everywhere:  art  is  always  an  ex-  \ 
pression  of  some  phase  of  man's  life  or  rela- 
tion to  nature;  and  it  is  this  universal  human  j 
basis  that  makes  possible  our  appreciation  of 
works  so  varied,  coming  from  such  different 
sources  in  place  and  time.  You  turn  to  the 
Antigone  of  Sophocles:  how  strange  it  is,  this 
story  of  a  sister  who  brings  herself  to  suffer 
death  in  cruel  fashion  merely  that  she  may 
give  the  rites  of  the  dead  to  the  body  of  her 
brother.  How  foolish  you  say :  his  soul  would 
not  have  suffered  had  the  rites  been  omitted; 
but  hear  what  she  says.  The  tyrant  asks : 

"And  thou  didst  dare  to  disobey  these  laws?" 

Antigone  responds: 

"Yes,  for  it  was  not  Zeus  who  gave  them  forth, 
Nor  Justice,  dwelling  with  the  gods  below, 
Who  traced  these  laws  for  all  the  sons  of  men; 
Nor  did  I  deem  thy  edicts  strong  enough, 
That  thou,  a  mortal  man,  shouldst  overpass 
The  unwritten  laws  of  God,  that  know  not  change. 
They  are  not  of  to-day  nor  yesterday, 
But  live  forever,  nor  can  man  assign 


26  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

When  first  they  sprang  to  being.      Not  through 

fear 

Of  any  man's  resolve  was  I  prepared 
Before  the  gods  to  bear  the  penalty 
Of  sinning  against  these."  * 

Then  we  understand:  while  we,  with  our  dif- 
ferent belief  and  training,  might  have  chosen 
a  different  particular  action,  she  was  doing 
only  what  all  noble  souls  have  ever  done — giv- 
ing up  her  own  lesser  good  for  the  greater 
good  of  one  she  loved.  So  the  strangeness  dis- 
appears, and  the  common  human  experience 
— thank  God  it  is  common — comes  home  to  us 
through  a  form  which  seems  so  far  away.  Thus 
always  art  is  an  expression  of  some  aspect  of 
the  common  basis  of  human  life. 

This  is  evidenced  also  by  the  fact  that  the 
different  fine  arts  actually  spring  from  one  his- 
torical source — an  act  of  worship  in  the  early 
Greek  world,  as  we  shall  see  in  a  subsequent 
chapter.  Further,  reversing  the  problem,  mas- 
terpieces in  widely  different  arts  may  produce 
the  same  dominant  impression  upon  us,  thus 
proving  the  unity  in  the  basis  from  which  they 

*  The  Tragedies  of  Sophocles,  translated  by  E.  H.  Plump- 
tre,  p.  145.  Routledge  &  Co.,  New  York. 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART      27 

spring.  This  likeness  among  masterpieces  in 
different  fields  is  indeed  so  strong  that  there 
are  great  artists  working  in  totally  different 
spheres  who,  nevertheless,  are  brothers  across 
the  centuries.  The  particular  avenue  of  their 
artistic  expression  seems  relatively  incidental; 
they  sound  the  same  deeps  and  produce  the 
same  type  of  effect.  Compare,  in  poetry,  JEiS- 
chylus,  in  sculpture  and  painting,  Michael 
Angelo,  in  music,  Beethoven:  these  men  are 
truly  brothers  across  the  centuries.  They  are 
the  titanic  dreamers,  thinkers  who  sheer  down 
to  the  very  heart  of  life.  Their  brooding  is  so 
vast  that  any  artistic  form  is  too  small  to  em- 
body it.  Thus,  much  as  they  give,  their  su- 
preme power  lies  in  stimulating  the  imagina- 
tion to  go  on  beyond  what  is  given  to  a  still 
vaster  world.  It  is  of  small  consequence  that 
one  was  poet,  another  painter  and  sculptor, 
and  the  third  musical  artist.  ^Eschylus  is 
closer  to  Michael  Angelo  than  to  his  contem- 
porary, Sophocles,  in  the  same  field  of  poetry ; 
while  Michael  Angelo  is  nearer  Beethoven 
than  to  his  fellow-painter,  Raphael,  working 
in  the  same  place  and  time. 

Take  as  a  second  group,  similarly  related, 


28  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Sophocles  in  poetry,  Raphael  in  painting,  and 
Mozart  in  music.  These,  too,  are  brothers 
across  the  centuries;  for  they  are  the  finished 
artists,  not  brooding  upon  vast,  unconquerable 
dreams,  not  peering  awe-struck  into  the  abyss, 
but  clothing  a  wisely  limited  content  in  ex- 
quisitely harmonious  form.  They  rest  us,  more 
than  they  stimulate,  satisfy  with  perfect 
beauty,  rather  than  exalt  with  irregular  reaches 
of  sublime  power.  Thus  their  kinship  in  the 
spirit:  Mozart,  modern  German,  is  closer  to 
the  Greek  poet,  Sophocles,  than  to  his  fellow- 
musician,  Beethoven,  and  Raphael  is  more 
akin  to  Mozart  than  to  his  Italian  contempo- 
rary and  brother  in  painting,  Michael  Angelo. 
To  clinch  the  argument  consider  a  third 
group:  Andrea  del  Sarto  in  painting,  Chopin 
in  music,  Heine  in  poetry.  Do  you  see  why 
these  three  are  classed  together  as  in  their  own 
way  brothers  across  the  centuries  ?  With  mar- 
vellous technical  skill  and  astonishing  ease  of 
execution,  these  men  are  neither  titanic  think- 
ers nor,  characteristically,  the  artists  who  rest 
us  with  balanced  harmony.  They  are  rather  the 
personal  revealers;  we  long  to  grope  behind 
their  work  to  some  deep  of  experience  explain- 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  LIFE  1M  ART       29 

ing  its  character.  They  sing  in  minor  key  and 
paint  with  a  subtle  mingling  of  light  and 
shadow.  In  the  elusive  paintings  of  Andrea, 
in  the  sobbing  harmonies  of  Chopin  pushed 
almost  to  the  point  of  discord,  in  the  haunting 
melodies  of  Heine,  alike  is  voiced  a  strange 
sadness — the  hunger  and  pain  of  a  spirit  too 
delicately  sensitive  and  too  keenly  responsive 
to  every  appeal  of  beauty  and  desire  to  find 
life  easy  or  comfortable  in  such  a  world  as 
ours.  Thus  these  three  are  closer  together 
than  each  was  to  his  fellow  artists  in  the  same 
field,  of  the  same  place  and  time. 

This  unity  of  spirit  and  impression  among 
works  of  art  so  remote  from  each  other  suffi- 
ciently proves  the  unity  of  human  experience 
in  and  behind  all  art.  One  person  is  like  all; 
that  is  why  we  can  understand  each  other. 
Life  is  made  of  a  few  simple,  common  ele- 
ments. As  the  physical  life  is  made  of  fresh 
air,  sunshine,  nourishing  food  and  exercise,  so 
the  spiritual  life  is  made  of  love  and  work, 
hunger  to  know  truth  and  appreciate  beauty, 
aspiration  toward  the  ideal.  "One  is  like  all." 
The  novels  and  dramas  of  the  world's  litera- 
ture focus  upon  two  or  three  problems — half 


30  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

of  them  on  personal  love ;  and  in  this  unity  of 
common  experience  is  the  basis  of  all  appre- 
ciation of  art,  since  every  work  of  art  is  the 
expression  of  some  aspect  of  this  common  life. 
Even  when  art  attempts  the  merest  imitation 
of  objective  nature  it  is  still  expression,  since 
it  embodies  the  human  love  of  reality  and  de- 
sire of  incarnating  it  in  artistic  form. 


Since  life  is  made  of  so  few  and  simple  ele- 
ments, and  art  is  always  an  expression  of  this 
common  basis,  what  makes  possible  the  fresh 
appeal  in  a  new  work  of  art?  The  answer  is 
found  first  in  the  fact  that  art  expresses  the 
common  basis  of  human  life  only  through  the 
medium  of  personality.  Now  each  personality 
is  unique  and  unparalleled.  If  one  is  like  all, 
each  is  also  different  from  all  others.  Life  is, 
in  each  individual,  a  fresh  equation  of  old 
forces :  the  basis  is  universal,  the  form  unique.* 

Thus  as  art  expresses  the  common  basis  of 
human  life  only  through  the  medium  of  per- 


*  For  a  fuller  exposition  of  the  two  correlative  principle 
the  unity  of  human  life  and  the  uniqueness  of  each  person- 
ality— consult  chapters  II  and  III  in  the  author's  Moral  Ed- 
ucation, B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York,  1904. 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       31 

sonality,  the  old  elements  are  stamped  with 
the  fresh  quality  of  the  transmuting  medium. 
How  the  wealth  of  old  northern  mythology  is 
transformed  as  it  is  passed  through  the  spec- 
trum of  Wagner's  genius.  Dante  gathers  up 
the  world  of  mediaeval  experience,  but  stamps 
it  all  with  the  color  of  his  own  character.  The 
common  tendencies  of  the  renaissance  receive 
widely  different  form  through  such  contrasting 
personalities  as  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo. 

Art,  moreover,  expresses  the  basis  of  human 
experience  always  in  definitely  limited  form, 
and  herein  lies  the  further  reason  for  its  ever 
new  appeal.  The  altar  at  which  every  artist 
must  perpetually  bow  is  the  shrine  of  the  god- 
dess of  limits.  The  undefined  is  never  the  ar- 
tistic, and  the  more  rigid  the  limitation,  the 
more  perfect  may  be  the  art.  Vague,  brooding 
emotions  and  thoughts  become  art  only  as  they 
receive  this  rigid  definition  in  form.  While 
Faust  dwells  with  "The  Mothers"  he  is  in  the 
presence  of  the  vast,  uncreate  energies  from 
which  all  beauty  springs;  but  it  is  only  when 
out  of  them  the  one  perfectly  limited  form 
of  Helena  is  called  into  being  that  art  is  born. 

Thus  it  is  that  each  new  expression  of  art, 


32  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

because  it  is  born  through  the  medium  of  per- 
sonality into  definitely  limited  form,  may  have 
its  fresh  appeal.  A  poet  of  the  day,  not  of  the 
highest  power,  has  dared  to  take  a  subject- 
matter  as  old  as  Europe,  which  received  ar- 
tistic expression  for  all  time  through  the  genius 
of  the  father  of  western  poetry,  Homer,  in  the 
song  of  world- wandering  Ulysses;  yet  when 
we  take  Stephen  Phillips's  Ulysses^  and  listen 
to  his  hero  as,  standing  on  the  shore  of  Ca- 
lypso's island,  he  voices  his  hunger  to  see 
"Gaunt  Ithaca  stand  up  out  of  the  surge,"  or 
hear  him  murmur  "little  Telemachus,"  the 
tears  come  to  our  eyes  and  we  are  moved  anew 
with  the  eternal  hunger  for  wife  and  child  and 
home. 

Fortunately  for  our  illustration  there  are 
available  two  little  poems  brief  enough  to 
quote,  both  written  by  gifted  lyric  poets  and 
dealing  with  the  same  theme.  On  the  16th  of 
April,  1746,  Charles  Edward  Stuart,  with 
the  Scotch  highlanders,  fought  at  Culloden, 
or  Drumossie  Moor,  near  Inverness,  his  last 
unavailing  battle  for  the  English  crown.  He 
and  his  highlanders  were  utterly  cut  to  pieces 
by  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  with  the  English 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       33 

troops.  Early  in  the  year  1746,  Collins — a 
poet  of  great  lyrical  power — wrote  the  follow- 
ing Ode  in  memory  of  the  English  who  fell  in 
the  war  against  the  Pretender: 

"How  sleep  the  Brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mold, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung: 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there !" 

Robert  Burns  also  wrote  a  Lament  for  Cul- 
loden,  for  the  Scotch  highlanders  who  fell  in 
defeat.  It  is  also  a  little  lyric  of  two  stanzas: 

"The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness, 
Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see; 
For  e'en  and  morn  she  cries,  Alas! 
And  aye  the  saut  tear  blin's  her  ee: 
Drumossie  moor — Drumossie  day — 
A  waefu'  day  it  was  to  me ! 


34  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 
My  father  dear,  and  brethren  three. 

Their  winding-sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 
Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see: 
And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 
That  ever  blest  a  woman's  ee! 
Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 
A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be; 
For  mony  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair 
That  ne'er  did  wrong  to  thine  or  thee." 

Both  these  are  exquisite  lyrics :  which  makes 
the  stronger  appeal?  Well,  a  small  fraction 
of  readers — those  who  are  peculiarly  respon- 
sive to  stately,  allegorical  imagery,  who  rank 
Spenser  beside  Shakespeare  and  have  the  ear 
rather  than  the  eye  memory — would  prefer  the 
Ode  of  Collins;  but  all  the  rest  of  us  respond 
more  deeply  to  the  appeal  of  Burns.  The 
reason  is  not  difficult  to  state :  one  man  is  more 
than  a  multitude  of  men.  The  grief  of  one 
Scotch  lassie  appeals  more  powerfully  than 
the  statement  that  so  many  thousand  men  fell 
in  a  certain  battle.  It  is  only  through  the  in- 
dividual that  we  appreciate  humanity.  You 
read  in  the  newspaper  that  a  factory  has  been 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       35 

shut  down  and  six  hundred  men  are  out  of 
work;  and  then  you  pass  on  to  the  next  item 
about  Mrs.  Somebody's  dinner  party,  and  the 
one  statement  makes  almost  as  much  impres- 
sion as  the  other;  but  if  it  has  ever  been  your 
lot  to  live  next  door  to  a  family  in  which  the 
husband  and  father  was  out  of  work,  you 
understand.  If  you  have  seen  the  man's  face, 
day  after  day,  as  he  kissed  his  wife  good-bye 
and  went  on  the  unavailing  search  for  work; 
if  you  have  seen  the  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she 
turned  into  the  house ;  if  you  have  watched  the 
children  grow  paler  and  more  hungry-looking 
day  by  day,  you  know  what  it  means  that  six 
hundred  men  are  out  of  work.  One  man  is 
more  than  a  multitude  of  men;  the  individual 
is  the  key  to  the  whole;  and  it  is  because  art 
always  expresses  the  common  basis  of  human 
experience  only  through  the  medium  of  per- 
sonality and  in  definitely  limited  form  that  its 
appeal  may  be  eternally  fresh  and  new. 

All  art  is  thus  expression;  but,  I  need 
scarcely  add,  not  all  expression  is  art.  To  be 
art,  the  expression  must  be  adequate  and  har- 
monious. This  does  not  mean  that  art  should 
produce  only  what  is  pleasing  to  the  senses: 


36  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

the  notion  that  art  must  always  do  this  is  one 
of  the  further  unwarranted  superstitions  prev- 
alent in  our  time.  The  principle  is  that  the 
body  of  expression  should  be  appropriately 
married  to  the  soul  of  meaning.  Gloom,  for 
example,  is  not  sensuously  pleasing,  but  the 
gloom  that  broods  upon  the  recumbent  figures 
from  the  hand  of  Michael  Angelo,  on  the 
Medicean  tombs,  is  beautiful,  because  it  per- 
fectly expresses  the  mood  Michael  Angelo 
wished  to  embody. 

Tennyson  is  one  of  the  most  consistently, 
almost  monotonously  melodious  poets  in  the 
English  language;  yet  there  are  harshly  dis- 
cordant lines  in  Tennyson,  and  they  are  artis- 
tic because  they  are  harsh.  When  Tennyson 
represents  himself  as  returning  in  In  Memo- 
riam  to  the  street  before  the  house  from  which 
his  friend  had  gone  out  never  to  return,  he 
paints  the  scene  as  in  the  early  morning,  with 
the  day  breaking  in  dismal  rain.  The  whole 
brief  canto  of  three  stanzas  is  masterly,  and  the 
closing  two  lines  are: 

"And  ghastly  through  the  drizzling  rain 
On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day."* 
*  In  Memoriam.  canto  VII. 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       37 

Note  the  harsh  sound  and  painful  association 
of  the  words.  Moreover,  the  last  line  is  all 
monosyllabic,  and  Pope  showed  long  ago  what 
happens  when 

" — ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line."11 

It  is  impossible  to  make  poetry  out  of  monosyl- 
lables, for  the  regular  metrical  stress  will  too 
rarely  correspond  to  the  natural  emphasis  to 
make  music.  Further,  in  Tennyson's  line  the 
metrical  stress  falls  just  where  it  ought  not 
in  ordinarily  good  poetry — on  the  unimportant 
words.  Thus,  scanned  conventionally,  the 
line  reads  : 

*'0n  th'e  bald  street  breaks  tne  blank  day." 

Read  the  two  lines,  however,  just  as  they  are, 
or  let  them  read  themselves  through  you: 

"And  ghastly   thro'ugh  the  drizzling  rain, 
Qh  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  daj ;" 

and  you  are  left  with  the  same  clutch  at  your 
throat  and  the  same  sob  in  your  heart  that  Ten- 

*  Essay   on   Criticism. 


38  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

nyson  felt.  \That  is  art:  adequately  and  har- 
moniously marrying  the  body  of  expression 
to  the  soul  of  thought,  feeling  and  imagination. \ 

How  far  art  should  go  in  portraying  the 
physically  horrible  and  the  morally  depraved 
is  an  open  question.  My  own  feeling  is  that 
there  are  deeps  so  terrible  that  art  would  bet- 
ter draw  the  curtain  and  leave  them  unsound- 
ed ;  but  one  thing  is  certain :  whatever  art  does 
venture  to  portray  must  be  given  in  form  ap- 
propriate to  the. content  expressed.  If  that 
is  painful  and  discordant,  so  must  be  the  body 
of  true  artistic  expression.  Thus  as  Dante 
comes  to  the  lowest  pit  of  hell  we  find  him 
saying : 

"If  I  had  rhymes  both  rough  and  stridulous, 
As  were  appropriate  to  the  dismal  hole 
Down  upon  which  thrust  all  the  other  rocks, 

I  would  press  out  the  juice  of  my  conception 
More  fully ;  but  because  I  have  them  not, 
Not  without  fear  I  bring  myself  to  speak ; 

For  'tis  no  enterprise  to  take  in  jest, 
To  sketch  the  bottom  of  all  the  universe, 
Nor    for    a    tongue    that     cries     Mamma    and 
Babbo."  * 

*  Dante,  Inferno,  canto  XXXII,  Longfellow's   translation. 


THE  EXPRESSION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       39 

That  is,  he  would  deliberately  use  harsher 
music,  if  he  could  find  it,  to  express  harmoni- 
ously the  moral  horror  of  the  nether  hell. 

'Let  us  sum  up  our  work  to  this  point :  art  is   \ 
the  adequate  and  harmonious  expression  of 
some  aspect  of  man's  life  or  relation  to  nature, 
through  the  medium  of  personality,  in  defin- 
itely limited  form. 


"When  imagination  incessantly  escapes  from  reality,  and 
does  not  abandon  the  simplicity  of  nature  in  its  wanderings: 
then  and  then  only  the  mind  and  the  senses,  the  receptive  force 
and  the  plastic  force,  are  developed  in  that  happy  equili- 
brium which  is  the  soul  of  the  beautiful  and  the  condition 
of  humanity." — Schiller,  Essays  JSsthetical  and  Philosophical, 
p.  106. 

"The  law  of  simplicity  and  naivety  holds  good  of  all  fine 
art;  for  it  is  quite  possible  to  be  at  once  simple  and  sublime." 
— Schopenhauer,  The  Art  of  Literature,  p.  31. 

"To  speak  out  once  for  all,  man  only  plays  when  in  the 
full  meaning  of  the  word  he  is  a  man,  and  he  is  only  com- 
pletely a  man  when  he  plays." — Schiller,  Essays  ^Esthetical 
and  Philosophical,  p.  71. 


40 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  INTERPRETATION  OF  HUMAN  LIFE 
IN    ART 

ART  is  always,  as  we  have  seen,  an  ex- 
pression of  some  aspect  of  life ;  but  this 
expression  is  inevitably  at  the  same  time 
interpretation.  Art  never  merely  echoes  na- 
ture ;  it  gives  nature  as  the  artist  sees  it,  thus 
putting  it  through  the  transmuting  spectrum 
of  the  artist's  personality.  \  This  is  true  even  of 
semi-mechanical  imitation  of  nature,  as  in  ama- 
teur photography.  Suppose  you  wish  to  take 
for  a  friend  a  photograph  of  a  little  wooded 
glen  that  seems  to  you  particularly  beautiful: 
What  do  you  do :  set  up  your  camera  and  take 
the  view?  Not  at  all;  you  wait  for  the  hour 
"when  the  light  is  right;"  go  about  from  one 
point  of  view  to  another  until  you  find  the  one 
that  best  pleases  you ;  and  then  take  your  pic- 
ture. That  is,  of  the  almost  innumerable  views 
you  might  have  taken,  you  choose  this  one,  and 
in  so  doing  say  what  this  bit  of  nature  means 

41 


42  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

to  you.  Thus,  even  when  copying  with  a  me- 
chanical instrument,  through  selecting  the  par- 
ticular aspect  and  point  of  view,  you  interpret 
the  phase  of  the  objective  world  in  terms  of 
its  relation  to  your  own  spirit. 

So  with  the  most  realistic  of  novels:  the  ar- 
tist must  select  his  material  from  the  bewil- 
dering detail  of  life,  and  choose  his  point  of 
view  in  portraying  it,  thus  interpreting  the  life 
he  copies.  Suppose  one  were  to  attempt  a 
realistic  narration  of  one's  own  life:  of  what 
would  one  write?  Why,  everything,  of  course. 
Yes,  and  fill  a  library  with  the  record  of  a 
month.  It  would  be  impossible  to  write  out 
the  life  of  one  week,  with  no  selection,  record- 
ing every  incident,  every  thought,  every  in- 
fluence. That  is  not  what  is  meant,  of  course, 
but  the  recording  only  of  what  is  important. 
Ah,  but  who  shall  say  what  is  important?  Is 
it  not  evident  that  the  most  realistic  narration 
of  a  week's  life  would  bring  certain  facts 
strongly  into  the  foreground,  since  they  would 
seem  most  essential  to  the  narrator ;  other  facts, 
appearing  to  him  as  less  significant,  would  be 
subordinated  in  the  background;  while  a  mul- 
titude of  other  facts  would  be  suppressed  alto- 


INTERPRETATION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       43 

gether,  since  they  would  seem  to  have  no  value, 
and  in  many  instances  might  not  even  be  re- 
called? Yet  of  the  facts  so  suppressed  or  for- 
gotten might  not  one  easily  be  the  critical 
element  of  the  life  seen  from  God's  point  of 
view  in  the  perspective  of  the  whole?  Thus 
the  most  realistic  narrator  chooses  his  point  of 
view,  exercises  a  high  degree  of  selection  upon 
his  material,  and  thus  interprets  life  in  terms 
of  his  own  personality,  in  copying  or  recording 
it.  The  pity  of  the  worse  type  of  realistic 
novel  is  that  it  selects  its  material  from  moral 
disease  instead  of  health,  as  if  disease  were 
truer  than  health!  That  notion  is  one  of  the 
strange  anomalies  of  our  time.  Men  exclaim: 
"We  will  see  life;"  and  then  proceed  to  smear 
themselves  with  the  slime  of  its  diseases !  The 
truth  is,  disease  can  never  be  understood  aright 
except  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  health  of 
which  it  is  the  perversion.  Still,  even  in  the 
wrong  kind  of  realism,  dedicated  to  the  ex- 
ploitation of  moral  disease,  art  selects  and  ar- 
ranges its  material,  treats  it  from  a  specific 
point  of  view,  and  thus  interprets  in  attempt- 
ing to  copy. 

Art  is  thus  always,  at  the  same  time,  real 


44  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

and  ideal.  It  is  real,  for  it  must  grip  reality 
somewhere  to  be  art;  it  is  ideal,  for  it  never 
merely  copies  reality.  The  great  artists  have 
always  been  aware  of  this,  consciously  or  in- 
stinctively; and  it  is  noteworthy  that  the  con- 
troversy concerning  realism  and  idealism  in  art 
has  been  carried  on,  not  chiefly  by  creative  ar- 
tists, but  by  critics  and  theorists  on  the  outside. 
Selection  of  material  and  point  of  view  is, 
however,  only  the  initial  principle  of  idealism. 
y  In  all  art  is,  further,  the  tendency  to  lift  nature 
to  more  adequate  expression.  Perhaps  I  can 
best  illustrate  this  second  principle  by  giving 
my  own  experience  with  Shakespeare.  It  had 
long  puzzled  me  that  Shakespeare  is  called 
the  great  realist,  loyally  holding  the  mirror 
up  to  human  nature;  yet  all  his  characters 
speak  beautiful  poetry.  Even  Caliban  upon 
his  island  talks  of  the  "quick  freshies"  and  the 
"bigger  light  and  less"  in  language  exquisitely 
poetical.  For  a  time  it  seemed  the  explanation 
must  be  that  actual  men  and  women  do  not 
express  themselves  ordinarily  in  beautiful 
poetry;  art  must  be  beautiful,  hence  the  dis- 
crepancy. The  explanation  did  not  satisfy, 
however.  Then  I  began  to  see  that,  while  all 


INTERPRETATION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       45 

Shakespeare's  characters  speak  poetry,  no 
two  of  them  speak  alike.  Caliban  does  not 
speak  as  Miranda,  nor  Miranda  like  Prospero. 
Hamlet  and  Horatio  are  as  different  in  ex- 
pression as  in  character.  Then  I  saw  that  what 
Shakespeare  had  done  was  to  lift  each  charac- 
ter to  a  plane  of  adequate  expression,  causing 
each  to  speak  not  as  the  person  does  speak  in 
life,  but  as,  in  the  given  situation  actual  men 
and  women  would  speak  if  they  could  say  just 
what  they  meant  and  say  it  perfectly.  Take 
the  supreme  example:  no  Roman  lion  brought 
to  bay,  squandering  half  the  world  for  a  great 
passion,  ever  used  the  wealth  of  overwhelming 
imagery  and  vocabulary  that  comes  from  the 
lips  of  Shakespeare's  Mark  Antony;  and  no 
sensuous  queen  of  Egypt,  daughter  of  a  hun- 
dred Ptolemies,  fitting  lioness  mate  for  this 
Roman  lion,  ever  spoke  with  the  audacious 
sweep  of  language  and  imagery  that  comes 
from  Cleopatra  in  the  play;  yet  Shakespeare's 
Antony  and  Cleopatra  speak  just  what  those 
two  characters,  in  the  given  circumstances  of 
their  lives,  would  have  spoken,  could  they  have 
said  exactly  what  they  felt  and  said  it  per- 
fectly. 


46  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

So  it  is  with  the  artistic  expression  of  deep 
meditation.  Let  one  walk  in  the  countryside 
some  quiet  autumn  afternoon,  when  the  winds 
are  still  and  the  leaves  quietly  falling,  red  and 
brown,  from  the  boughs  of  the  trees,  the  sky 
gray  and  still  above;  let  one  be  alone  or  with 
one  friend  who  understands  and  knows  when 
not  to  speak;  the  breath  comes  slowly  and 
regularly,  and  so  does  the  heart  beat.  One 
moves  with  slow  and  measured  step.  In  such 
a  mood  one  does  not  usually  speak  in  poetry; 
but  if  it  were  possible  to  express  perfectly 
what  one  thinks  and  feels  in  such  a  mood,  one 
would  speak  in  just  such  measured,  slow-mov- 
ing, musical  lines  as  those  in  the  greatest  of 
Wordsworth's  sonnets: 

"The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon ! 
The  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God !    I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 


INTERPRETATION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       47 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn." 


This  element  of  idealism  is  present  in  all  the 
arts.  Where  in  the  French  nature  world  can 
you  find  Corot's  landscapes?  Well,  every- 
where, and  here,,  too,  after  you  have  seen  and 
loved  them  in  Corot's  paintings;  but  nowhere 
before.  It  is  almost  as  if  that  French  nature 
world  had  been  brooding  for  untold  centuries, 
waiting  to  voice  the  meaning  of  its  beauty; 
but  only  when  Corot  came  and  grasped  its  se- 
cret could  it  rise  to  full  and  free  expression. 
So  the  dumb,  half-wakened  hunger  of  the 
French  peasant,  on  the  background  of  majes- 
tic nature,  waited  for  the  genius  of  Millet 
to  understand  it  and  express  it  in  art.  Thus 
the  Venus  de  Milo  bodies  forth,  not  what  any 
Greek  woman  was,  but  what  all  Greek  women 
wanted  to  be,  womanhood  achieving  its  highest 
expression,  not  in  nature,  but  in  the  interpre- 
tation of  art. 

Even  more  fully  is  this  element  of  idealism 
present  in  music,  the  art  capable  of  voicing 


48  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

emotions  that  lie  far  too  deep  for  words  ever 
to  express  them.  As  we  shall  see  in  our  study 
of  music,  its  peculiar  method  and  function 
bring  this  phase  of  idealism  to  its  highest  form. 

This  element  in  all  the  arts  is  balanced  by 
a  third  principle  of  idealism — the  law  of  re- 
straint. This  demands  that  the  artist  shall 
not  express  all  he  feels :  he  must  express  a  part 
and  suggest  the  rest,  stimulating  the  imagina- 
tion to  go  on  beyond  the  limits  of  what  is  given. 
If  an  actor,  for  example,  were  to  express  all 
the  passion  of  Lear  or  Othello,  you  would  say 
he  ranted,  and  the  verdict  would  be  just. 
Were  music  to  embody  all  the  composer  feels, 
it  would  fail  to  move  deeply.  If  a  speaker 
expresses  all  he  has  to  give,  the  effect  is  cheap. 
Behind  what  is  given,  must  be  a  great  reserve 
power  unexpressed. 

Thus  when  art  attempts  to  do  everything 
for  its  audience  the  effect  is  tawdry.  That  is 
one  trouble  with  the  theater  to-day.  The  effort 
by  skilful  scene  painting  and  other  sensational 
effects  to  accomplish  everything  for  the  jaded 
senses  and  sluggish  imagination  of  the  spec- 
tator, tends  to  make  him  sit  back  in  a  semi- 
somnolent  fashion  merely  to  be  played  upon 


INTERPRETATION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       49 

from  without ;  while  the  challenge  to  the  actor 
is  almost  equally  wanting.  The  result  is  that, 
with  no  active  cooperation  between  artist  and 
audience,  the  characters  fail  to  impress  them- 
selves. Better  the  bare,  unadorned  stage  of 
Shakespeare's  time,  with  a  sign-board  to  in- 
dicate Rome  or  London,  where  the  situation 
challenged  the  actor  to  the  vigorous  effort  to 
interpret  life,  than,  in  the  attempt  to  accom- 
plish everything  for  the  senses  and  imagina- 
tion, to  fail  wholly  of  the  vital  portrayal  of 
character. 

The  principle  is  thus  universal.  The  land- 
scape artist  dare  not  paint  all  he  sees,  but  must 
creatively  interpret  his  vision  instead  of  imi- 
tating nature.  In  music  it  is  the  deep  wealth 
of  emotion  unexpressed  that  gives  to  the  mel- 
ody its  power  to  sweep  one  on  to  the  bosom  of 
the  sea  of  feeling. 

With  all  art  that  portrays  life  in  relation  to 
law  there  is  a  further  element  of  idealism  in 
carrying  the  laws  to  greater  fulfillment  than 
appears  normally  in  life.  Literature  especially 
does  this.  In  our  life  .tendencies  are  evident, 
but  incomplete.  The  threads  are  spun  a  little 
way  and  then  pitiless  Atropos  cuts  them  off, 


50  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

and  how  those  tangled  threads  may  be  woven 
into  the  complete  garment  of  life  behind  the 
veil,  we  cannot  see ;  but  the  true  artist  sees.  In- 
deed, he  is  artist  partly  because  he  is  prophet, 
with  a  vision  of  life  brought  full  circle.  In 
life,  the  curtain  may  fall  on  any  one  of  the 
scenes  of  the  never-finished  drama;  in  the  play, 
it  may  not  fall  until  the  five  full  acts  are  com- 
plete. In  life,  any  one  who  is  growing  dies 
too  soon:  there  are  always  incomplete  tenden- 
cies, potentialities  broken  off;  but  in  art,  the 
ethical  motive,  laid  down  in  the  beginning, 
must  be  completed  in  the  end.  In  our  world, 
not  all  mad  ambition  brings  the  tragedy  of 
Macbeth,  not  all  unfounded  jealousy  the  piti- 
ful eclipse  at  the  end  of  Othello,  not  all  intro- 
spective absorption,  with  the  will  balanced  be- 
tween opposing  motives,  the  black  disaster  of 
Hamlet;  but  in  Shakespeare  these  conclusions 
inexorably  follow.  Thus  art  interprets  life 
by  bringing  its  actual  tendencies  of  good  and 
evil  to  that  more  complete  fulfillment  toward 
which  religion  and  philosophy  have  always 
groped. 

Further,  in  all  the  arts  is  an  element  of 
idealism  which  may  be  called  atmosphere.    It 


INTERPRETATION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       51 

is  this  that  unifies  a  masterpiece  and  gives  the 
key  to  the  spirit  of  the  whole.  Nowhere  is 
there  a  better  illustration  than  in  the  paintings 
of  Titian.  What  is  it  that  makes  his  pictures 
so  wonderful  an  interpretation  of  Venice?  Not 
the  nude  figures,  the  bit  of  mountain,  the  sea 
or  the  radiant  sky;  but  the  luxuriant  wealth 
of  warm  golden  light  poured  over  the  whole, 
transfiguring  the  landscape,  lifting  the  nude 
bodies  away  from  all  possible  association  with 
illness  or  death,  giving  unity  and  interpreting 
the  whole. 

So  the  subtle  "light  that  never  was  on  sea 
or  land"  is  more  than  anything  else  the  key 
to  Corot's  impression.  In  the  Inferno  of 
Dante  there  is  one  dominant  atmosphere,  made 
of  darkness  deepened  into  darkness,  set  off  by 
vermilion  flame;  in  the  Purgatorio  another, 
made  up  of  all  the  beauty  of  the  natural  world ; 
in  the  Paradiso  a  third,  with  light  multiplied 
into  light,  till  the  radiant  shining  is  all  but  un- 
endurable. Similarly  there  is  one  unifying  and 
interpretative  atmosphere  in  a  fugue  of  Bach's, 
a  nocturne  of  Chopin's,  or  in  the  third  move- 
ment of  the  Ninth  Symphony  of  Beethoven. 

Besides  these  five  elements  of  idealism  in 


52  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

art,  there  is  a  final  principle,  in  that  art,  to  be 
sound,  must  present  the  phase  of  life  it  por- 
trays in  true  relation  to  the  whole.  This  ap- 
plies particularly  to  the  portrayal  of  evil.  This 
is  dangerous  in  its  effect  only  when  evil  is 
pictured  out  of  relation  to  the  whole  of  life, 
as  for  instance,  in  the  worse  sort  of  the  so- 
called  French  novel  (which  is  not  produced, 
by  the  way,  exclusively  in  France)  where  a 
moral  evil  is  dressed  in  such  beautiful  garments 
that  it  is  mistaken  for  the  good,  and  so  be- 
comes seductively  misleading.  The  great  mas- 
ters never  make  this  mistake :  in  their  portrayal 
evil  is  as  repulsive  in  form  as  it  is  offensive  in 
meaning.  No  daughter  was  ever  led  to  un- 
filial  conduct  by  the  example  of  Goneril  and 
Regan  in  King  Lear;  no  one  was  ever  tempted 
to  a  career  of  deception  by  the  example  of 
lago.  We  despise  these  characters,  and  they 
in  no  way  seduce  us  to  imitation  of  their 
behavior. 

Thus  Dante  uses  coarse  epithets  and  imag- 
ery increasingly  painful  to  the  senses,  to  clothe 
the  darker  sins  as  he  descends  the  pit  of  hell. 
That  the  principle  is  not  confined  to  moral 
evil,  however,  is  evident  in  the  work  of  such 


INTERPRETATION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       53 

painters  as  Millet  and  Bastien-Lepage,  the 
wonder  of  whose  portrayal  of  peasant  life  is 
that  the  phase  studied  is  given  in  such  sound 
relation  to  the  whole  of  life  as  to  interpret  its 
very  soul. 

Let  me  give  an  illustration  of  this  principle 
in  the  field  of  the  novel.  Some  years  ago 
Upton  Sinclair  studied  the  notorious  packing- 
house district  of  Chicago  and  portrayed  its 
horrors  in  the  novel,  The  Jungle,  widely  read 
here  and  abroad,  which  helped  vitally  to  the 
reform  of  the  evil  conditions  it  exploited.  Now 
I  have  no  doubt  that  every  incident  given  in 
the  novel  could  be  paralleled  in  the  packing- 
house district  of  Chicago,  and  that  the  mass  of 
these  facts  had  come  under  the  direct  observa- 
tion of  the  author;  yet  I  have  no  hesitation  in 
saying  that  the  story  as  a  whole  is  untrue  to 
the  life  it  presents.  What  the  author  did,  after 
exhaustive  investigation  of  the  horrors  of  that 
district  of  Chicago,  was  to  gather  them  all 
together  and  heap  them  upon  the  head  of  one 
devoted  woman  and  family.  The  result  was 
a  more  or  less  effective  reform  document,  but 
a  novel  with  a  loss  of  sound  perspective,  thus 
artistically,  and  hence  ethically,  untrue  to  the 


54  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

life  it  portrayed.  The  same  criticism  may  be 
passed  upon  a  more  recent  social  document, 
exploiting  the  evils  of  the  "white  slave  traffic" 
— Kauffman's  House  of  Bondage. 

It  is  on  the  basis  of  this  principle,  little  as 
it  is  understood,  that  the  work  of  Ibsen,  Mae- 
terlinck, Shaw,  Wilde  and  Sudermann  must 
ultimately  be  judged,  as  also  the  didactic 
dramas,  such  as  The  Passing  of  the  Third 
Floor  Back,  The  Servant  in  the  House, 
Everywoman,  The  Terrible  Meek,  which  have 
enjoyed  such  vogue  recently.  Much  second- 
rate  work,  that  is  widely  popular  for  the  mo- 
ment, is  weeded  out  and  forgotten  after  a 
little  time,  just  because  the  artist  lacked  the 
greatness  to  see  the  part  in  true  perspective 
and  sound  relation  to  the  whole,  and  so  be- 
came the  partisan  rather  than  the  true  creator. 

Let  us  sum  up  our  work  to  this  point,  formu- 
lating the  answer  to  our  first  question:  Art 
is  then  the  adequate  and  harmonious  expres- 
sion and  interpretation,  through  the  medium  of 
personality  and  in  definitely  limited  form,  of 
some  phase  of  man's  life  or  relation  to  nature 
in  true  relation  to  the  whole.  This  statement 
is  not  intended  as  a  definition  in  the  ordinary 


INTERPRETATION  OF  LIFE  IN  ART       55 

sense,  but  as  a  thesis,  gathering  together  all  the 
elements  studied  as  forming  art.  Simplifying 
the  statement,  retaining  the  most  definitive  ele- 
ments: Art  is  the  adequate  and  harmonious 
expression  and  interpretation  of  some  phase  of 
mans  life  in  true  relation  to  the  whole. 


^ 


"Art  rests  upon  a  kind  of  religious  sense:  it  is  deeply  and 
ineradicably  in  earnest.  Thus  it  is  that  Art  so  willingly  goes 
hand  in  hand  with  Religion." — Goethe,  Maxims  and  Reflec- 
tions, p.  174. 

"The  secret,  mysterious  relations  of  the  human  heart  to 
the  strange  nature  around  it,  have  not  yet  come  to  an  end. 
In  its  eloquent  silence,  this  latter  still  speaks  to  the  heart 
just  as  it  did  a  thousand  years  ago;  and  what  was  told  in  the 
very  gray  of  antiquity  is  understood  to-day  as  easily  as  then. 
For  this  reason  it  is  that  the  legend  of  nature  ever  remains 
the  inexhaustible  resource  of  the  poet  in  his  intercourse  with 
his  people." — Wagner,  in  "Der  Freischiitz  in  Paris,"  Art  Life 
and  Theories,  p.  99. 

"The  essence  of  the  Scandinavian,  as  indeed  of  all  pagan 
mythologies,  we  found  to  be  recognition  of  the  divineness  of 
nature;  sincere  communion  of  man  with  the  mysterious  in- 
visible powers  visibly  seen  at  work  in  the  world  round  him. 
This,  I  should  say,  is  more  sincerely  done  in  the  Scandinavian 
than  in  any  mythology  I  know.  Sincerity  is  the  great  char- 
acter of  it.  Superior  sincerity  (far  superior)  consoles  us  for 
the  total  want  of  old  Grecian  grace.  Sincerity,  I  think,  is 
better  than  grace.  I  feel  that  these  old  northmen  were  look- 
ing into  nature  with  open  eye  and  soul  most  earnest,  honest; 
childlike,  and  yet  manlike;  with  a  great-hearted  simplicity 
and  depth  and  freshness,  in  a  true,  loving,  admiring,  un- 
fearing  way." — Carlyle,  Heroes  and  Hero-Worship,  p.  30. 


56 


CHAPTER    III 
PRIMITIVE    SOURCES    OF    ART 

THAT  alljhe  arts  spring  trpm  a  j 
~mon  historic  basisjias  already  been  in- 
~^cat^''.'Tffi^Ja^of_evrfutiMLJrom  the 
homogeneous  to  the  differentiated  and  special- 
cer  traced 


logical  world,  is  evident  in  the  history  of  art. 
Alljthe  fine  arts  are  present  in  germ  in  an  act. 
of  religious  worship  in  the  early  Greek  world, 
when  a  hymn  was  sung  in  honor  of  the  god, 
and  accompanied  with  orchestric  dancing.  The 
interpretative  dancing  was  the  basis  of  sculp- 
ture, and  from  sculpture,  with  scarcely  a  line 
of  demarcation,  sprang  painting.  The  sing- 
ing was  the  basis  of  music  ;  while  the  hymn  it- 
self represented  poetry,  from  which,  by  the 
way,  science  and  philosophy  were  later  de- 
jrelopepL  J^iujM^hjofJ^ 
_prj£tisjed  jto-day^has  been  differentiated  and 
_s^eciaJJzejdJn_f  unction  out  of  a  simple  unified 
historical  source^ 

67 


58  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Note,  further,  the  intimate  connection  of  all 
early  art  with  religion.   j[ndeed,jwhile  the  im- 
pulse of  love  and  the  desire  to  record  action 
and  event  cooperated_in  the  birth  of  art,  the 
jnain    inspiration    came    from    religion  ^  and. 
i>  thejiistor^of  the  arts  the 


_§ssociation  ,_  wife  religion  continues  intimate. 
Architecture  builds  temples,  sculpture  and 
painting  adorn,  them,,  music  and  poetry  are 
chiefly_concerned  with_  worship..  Even  to-day 

jail  these  arts  find  an  irnppjtajr^funct  ion  in 
s^vin^religwn^^a^.djwhiLe  that  Js__no  longer 

,  their  main  purpose,  the^road  was  long  the  arts 
were  compelled  to  travel  before  they  could 
free  themselves  from  being  merely  the  hand- 
maidens of  religion,  and  attain  their  independ- 
ent functions  as  ideal  expressions  of  the  spirit 
of  man.  Rjemember  the  J[pjrig__^ejnturies--of 

.By^antinejajnting  when  ^.aj±_j»as-  merely  _re- 

jigipus^  symbolisni,  its  pictures^  pegs  -on  which 
to  hang  the  teachings  of  faith;  or  consider  at 
how  late  a  period  the  secular  drama  freed  itself 
from  the  conventions..  of  ihejnediaeval  mystery 

_and  morality  j»lays» 

With  the  homogeneous  simplicity  of  primi- 


PRIMITIVE  SOURCES  OF  ART  59 

tive  life,  religion  was  not  separated  from  other 
aspects  of  existence,  but  permeated  them  all  j 
in  ja  prof pundl^jtrue  sense  life  itself  was  re- 
ligion. Born  under  this .  dominant  religious 
inspiration,  early  art  was  deeply  serious.  It 
was  concerned  with  the  universal  questions  of 
man's  existence,  and  had  a  unity  and  compre- 
hensiveness not  present  equally  in  later  differ- 
entiated forms  of  art.  Indeed,  long  before 
conscious  art  is  born,  there  is  accumulated  a 
great  storehouse  of  popular  thought,  feeling 
and  imagination.  It  springs  directly  out  of 
life,  deajling  with^the  two  universal  aspects 
of  existence — Man  and  Nature.  The  legends 
slowly  grew,  told  over  by  the  agedjtp  the  young 
befojre  the  hearthstone,  sung  by  wandering 
minstrels  at  the  halls  of  chieftains,  molded 
and  remolded  from  age  to  age,  until,  when 
finally  written  down,  they  represent  the  re- 
fined, condensed  result  of  generations  upon 
generations  of  early  life. 

The  power  of  primitive  men,  with  memories 
unaided  and  uncrippled  by  note-books,  to  pre- 
serve and  hand  on  such  a  body  of  material,  is 
beyond  all  that  we,  with  our  mechanical  de- 


60  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

vices  and  printed  books,  can  understand.* 
Thus  the  human  mind  was  the  tablet  upon 
which  the  primitive  artist  wrote;  but  just 
for  that  reason  his  creation  was  less  crys- 
tallized and  more  subject  to  change.  While 
primitive  men  regarded  their  inherited  legends 
with  religious  veneration,  still  the  plastic  mind, 
receiving  and  transmitting  them,  improved  and 
refined  them  as  time  went  on. 

Thus  the  expression  of  early  life  has  cor- 
relative strength  and  weakness  as  compared 
with  later  artistic  masterpieces.  In  such  a  lit- 
erary creation  as  the  Divine  Comedy  or  Faust 
there  is  the  advantage  of  unified  and  complete 
art  in  the  work  as  a  whole.  We  get  the  per- 
sonal reaction  on  life  of  one  great  mind  and 
the  statement  of  one  man's  philosophy. 

Mythology  lacks  this  unity  resulting  from 
the  world-view  of  a  single  great  mind,  but  it 
has  condensed  vitality  and  deals  with  universal 
material.  It  is  of  two  main  types  determined 


*  "There  are  thousands  of  Brahmans  even  now,  when  sc 
little  inducement  exists  for  Vedic  studies,  who  know  the 
whole  of  the  Rig-Veda  by  heart  and  can  repeat  it;  and  what 
applies  to  the  Rig-Veda  applies  to  many  other  books." — F. 
Max  Miiller,  India:  What  Can  It  Teach  Us,  p.  81.  Long- 
mans, Green,  &  Co.,  London,  1883. 


PRIMITIVE  SOURCES  OF  ART  61 

by  its  two  subjects — Man  and  Nature.  These 
are  of  course  interwoven,  but  now  one,  now  the 
other,  is  dominant.  The  contrasting  types  will 
be  evident  if  we  compare  the  main  body  of 
Aryan  legend  with  that  produced  by  the 
Semites.  As  far  back  as  we  can  trace  the 
Aryans  they  lived  in  settled  habitations,  in  vil- 
lage communities.  As  cultivators  of  the  soil 
they  depended  for  their  existence  upon  the 
regular  recurrence  of  the  seasons,  the  shining 
of  the  sun  and  the  falling  of  the  rain.  De- 
pending thus  upon  Nature,  with  their  atten- 
tion constantly  drawn  to  her  activities,  their 
mythology  was  naturally  in  the  main  a  poetic 
interpretation  of  those  activities  and  their  in- 
fluence on  man.  The  all-enfolding  sky,  mar- 
ried to  the  earth-mother  through  the  life-giving 
rain,  the  storm  gods  driving  their  spotted  deer 
or  f ull-uddered  cows  across  the  heaven,  the  life- 
giving  sun,  the  dawn— housewife  of  the  sky: 
these_  were  the  objects  of  Aryan  worship  and 
the  subjects  of  Aryan  mythology. 

In  the  earliest  period  this  mythology  is  re- 
markably fluid,  the  life-giving  principle  of 
Nature  being  worshiped  easily  under  any  of 
its  manifold  forms;  but  as  various  races  de- 


62  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

veloped  out  of  the  parent  stem,  more  definite 
mythologies  were  differentiated  under  the  in- 
fluence of  new  conditions  of  life.  One  branch 
of  the  race,  migrating  to  what  became  Persia, 
where  the  strong  contrast  is  of  day  and  night, 
light  and  darkness,  developed  a  nature  dual- 
ism, opposing  Ormuzd,  the  bright  god,  to 
Ahriman,  the  spirit  of  darkness. 

Another  branch,  entering  the  beautiful 
peninsula  of  Hellas,  with  the  sea  and  the 
mountains  everywhere,  each  valley  with  its  dis- 
tinguishing individuality  and  the  radiant  sky 
over  all,  evolved  the  most  beautiful  nature 
polytheism  the  world  has  seen.  Every  river, 
dell  and  tree  in  the  forest  had  its  presiding 
spirit,  while  all  these  divine  powers  were  gath- 
ered in  the  pantheon  of  gods  upon  Olympus. 

Still  nother  portion  of  the  mother  race, 
settling  upon  the  northern  shores  of  Europe 
and  upon  the  peninsulas  that  are  now  Den- 
mark, Norway  and  Sweden,  found  a  nature 
world  of  forbidding  majesty,  where  life  was  a 
perpetual  struggle  against  destructive  forces 
—the  forest  and  its  wild  beasts,  the  giants  of 
ice,  cold  and  snow,  and  the  demon  of  destruc- 
tive fire.  Thus  these  men  developed  a  dualism 


PRIMITIVE  SOURCES  OF  ART  63 

in  which  man's  will  and  intelligence,  incarnate 
in  the  bright  gods — Odin,  Thor,  Balder,  Freya 
and  the  rest — were  opposed  to  the  Jotuns  of 
the  north,  the  Fenrir  wolf  and  the  Midgard 
Serpent,  Loki,  the  demon  of  fire. 

The  Semitic  peoples,  on  the  other  hand,  as 
far  back  as  we  can  trace  them,  were  nomads. 
Living  upon  flocks  and  herds,  climbing  the 
mountains  when  the  valleys  were  dry,  crossing 
to  fertile  plains  beyond,  adding  to  their  sus- 
tenance by  marauding  raids  upon  weaker  and 
more  settled  tribes,  their  existence  depended 
less  upon  nature  than  upon  human  courage, 
intelligence  and  leadership,  with  close  social  or- 
ganization* It  was  the  strong,  patriarchal 
chieftain,  the  brave  warrior,  the  unified  war- 
fare against  common  foes  that  guaranteed  their 
existence.  Thus  the  mythology  they  devel- 
oped centered  upon  human  character  and  ac- 
tion rather  than  upon  nature.  They  wor- 
shiped at  first  the  dead  chieftain,  lifted  to  that 
mysterious  other  world  but  supposed  still  to 
have  some  power  upon  this.  As  their  religion 
developed,  they  came  to  worship  the  god  of  the 
tribe,  the  race,  and  finally  the  king  and  ruler 
of  the  universe.  In  the  whole  process  it  was 


64  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

human  power,  justice,  benevolence  and,  in  the 
end,  love,  upon  which  the  mind  of  the  Sem- 
ites was  focused,  and  not  mainly  the  forces 
and  activities  of  the  nature  world.  Thus 
their  accumulated  body  of  legend  concerned 
mainly  the  history  of  human  action,  of  brave 
deeds,  persecutions  endured,  tribal  and  racial 
victories. 

Of  course  the  two  tendencies  overlap. 
Among  all  the  Indo-European  races  a  wealth 
of  human  legend  gets  grafted  on  the  older  and 
more  characteristic  body  of  nature  myths. 
The  origin  of  the  latter  is,  in  the  end,  quite 
forgotten,  and  elements  from  human  tradition 
get  associated  with  even  the  oldest  nature 
stories.  Similarly,  we  find  the  Elohim  beside 
Jehovah  in  the  Old  Testament,  and  the  genii 
of  Mohammedan  lore.  Still  the  striking  dif- 
ferentiation in  type,  springing  from  original 
differences  in  racial  activity  and  environment, 
remains. 

The  importance  of  the  two  themes  of  all 
primitive  art  is  evident  if  one  remembers  that 
all  forces  of  human  progress  reduce  to  two — 
the  action  of  man  and  the  reaction  of  nature. 
Moreover,  the  two  great  aspects  of  the  devel- 


PRIMITIVE  SOURCES  OF  ART  65 

opment  of  world  religion  have  been  the  pro- 
gressive discovery  of  the  Divine,  if  I  may  so 
express  it,  through  the  two  chapters  of  revela- 
tion— Man  and  Nature,  ending  in  a  union  of 
the  two  in  a  conception  of  God  as  at  once  in 
the  world,  as  the  immanent  life  of  all  life  "in 
whom  we  live  and  move  and  have  our  being," 
and  above  the  world,  as  the  loving  Father  of 
spirits  in  whose  image  we  are  made.  Thus  pro- 
found and  universal  are  the  two  themes  of 
primitive  art. 

The  vitality  of  treatment  in  early  art  is  as 
impressive  as  its  universality  in  subject*  Take, 
for  instance,  the  old  JBrynhild- Sigurd  story  as 
it  is  given  in  the  Elder  Edda  and  the  Song  of 
the  Folsungs.  Here,  even  more  than  in  Wag- 
ner's rendering,  is  it  universally  human  in 
elements  and  vital  in  treatment.  The  frag- 
mentary songs  of  the  Elder  Edda,  wild  but 
majestic  in  irregular  alliterative  verse,  date 
perhaps  from  the  eighth  to  the  tenth  centuries. 
The  Volsung's  Saga,  a  prose  epic  of  somewhat 
later  date  (probably  the  thirteenth  century), 
follows  closely  the  older  material,  but  gives 
the  story  in  more  complete  form.  Thus  both 
represent  the  early  working  over  of  the  body 


66  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

of  legend  handed  down  through  generations. 
Two  elements  of  Fate  are  in  the  story  from 
the  beginning.  The  first  is  the  hoard  of  treas- 
ure, guarded  by  the  dragon  Fafnir.  The  other 
is  the  doom  of  Brynhild,  the  battle  may,  who, 
for  breaking  the  will  of  Odin,  is  pierced  with 
the  sleep-thorn  and  confined  in  the  castle  sur- 
rounded by  fire.  Sigurd,  fated  and  fearless, 
having  slain  the  dragon,  comes  to  the  flame- 
girt  castle : 

"By  long  roads  rides  Sigurd,  till  he  comes  at  the 
last  up  on  to  Hindfell,  .  .  .  and  he  sees  before  him 
on  the  fell  a  great  light,  as  of  fire  burning,  and  flam- 
ing up  even  unto  the  heavens;  and  when  he  came 
thereto,  lo,  a  shield-hung  castle  before  him,  and  a 
banner  on  the  topmost  thereof:  into  the  castle  went 
Sigurd,  and  saw  one  lying  there  asleep,  and  all-armed. 
Therewith  he  takes  the  helm  from  off  the  head  of  him, 
and  sees  that  it  is  no  man,  but  a  woman ;  and  she  was 
clad  in  a  byrny  as  closely  set  on  her  as  though  it 
had  grown  to  her  flesh ;  so  he  rent  it  from  the  collar 
downwards ;  and  then  the  sleeves  thereof,  and  ever 
the  sword  bit  on  it  as  if  it  were  cloth.  Then  said 
Sigurd  that  over-long  had  she  lain  asleep;  but  she 
asked — 

'What  thing  of  great  might  is  it  that  has  pre- 


PRIMITIVE  SOURCES  OF  ART  67 

vailed  to  rend  my  byrny,  and  draw  me  from  my 
sleep?  .  .  .  Ah,  is  it  so,  that  here  is  come  Sigurd 
Sigmundson,  bearing  Fafnir's  helm  on  his  head  and 
Fafnir's  bane  in  his  hand?  ' 

Then  answered  Sigurd  .  .  . 

'Of  the  Volsung's  kin  is  he  who  has  done  the  deed ; 
but  now  I  have  heard  that  thou  art  daughter  of  a 
mighty  king,  and  folk  have  told  us  that  thou  wert 
lovely  and  full  of  lore,  and  now  will  I  try  the  same.' 

Then  Brynhild  sang — 

'Long  have  I  slept 

And  slumbered  long, 
Many  and  long  are  the  woes  of  mankind, 

By  the  might  of  Odin 

Must  I  bide  helpless 
To  shake  from  off  me  the  spells  of  slumber. 

Hail  to  the  day  come  back! 

Hail,  sons  of  the  daylight! 
Hail  to  thee,  dark  night,  and  thy  daughter! 

Look  with  kind  eyes  a-down, 

On  us  sitting  here  lonely, 
And  give  unto  us  the  gain  that  we  long  for.' 

Then  said  Sigurd,  'Teach  us  the  lore  of  mighty 
matters !' 

She  said,  'Belike  thou  cannest  more  skill  in  all 


68  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

than  I;  yet  will  I  teach  thee;  yea,  and  with  thanks, 
if  there  be  aught  of  my  cunning  that  will  in  anywise 
pleasure  thee,  either  of  runes  or  of  other  matters  that 
are  the  root  of  things ;  but  let  us  now  drink  together, 
and  may  the  Gods  give  to  us  twain  a  good  day,  that 
thou  mayst  win  good  help  and  fame  from  my  wisdom, 
and  that  thou  mayst  hereafter  mind  thee  of  that 
which  we  twain  speak  together.' ' 

So  she  gives  him  the  drink  of  love,  and 
then  with  childlike  simplicity  yet  with  mature 
love  of  wisdom,  these  two  sit  down  together, 
with  the  flames  all  round  about,  while  she  sings 
him  the  sacred  runes — runes  of  war  and  of 
pity,  of  safety  and  thought — "wise  words, 
sweet  words,  speech  of  great  game." 

It  is  significant  of  this  old  Norse  land  that 
the  woman,  repository  of  wisdom,  teaches, 
while  the  man  learns. 

"Sigurd  spake  now,  'Sure  no  wiser  woman  than 
thou  art  one  may  be  found  in  the  wide  world;  yea, 
yea,  teach  me  more  yet  of  thy  wisdom !'  .  .  . 

She  spake  withal — 

'Be  kindly  to  friend  and  kin,  and  reward  not  their 

*  The  Story  of  the  Volsungs,  edited  by  H.  Halliday  Spar- 
ling, pp.  68-70.  Walter  Scott,  London/ 


PRIMITIVE  SOURCES  OF  ART  69 

trespasses  against  thee;  bear  and  forbear,  and  win 
for  thee  thereby  long  enduring  praise  of  men. 

Take  good  heed  of  evil  things :  a  may's  love,  and  a 
man's  wife;  full  oft  thereof  doth  ill  befall! 

Let  not  thy  mind  be  overmuch  crossed  by  unwise 
men  at  thronged  meetings  of  folk;  for  oft  these 
speak  worse  than  they  wot  of;  lest  thou  be  called 
a  dastard,  and  art  minded  to  think  that  thou  art 
even  as  is  said;  slay  such  an  one  on  another  day, 
and  so  reward  his  ugly  talk. 

•  *••••• 

Let  not  fair  women  beguile  thee,  such  as  thou 
mayst  meet  at  the  feast,  so  that  the  thought  thereof 
stand  thee  in  stead  of  sleep,  and  a  quiet  mind;  yea, 
draw  them  not  to  thee  with  kisses  and  other  sweet 
things  of  love. 

If  thou  hearest  the  fool's  word  of  a  drunken  man, 
strive  not  with  him  being  drunk  with  drink  and  wit- 
less ;  many  a  grief,  yea,  and  the  very  death,  groweth 
from  out  such  things. 

Fight  thy  foes  in  the  field,  nor  be  burnt  in  thine 
own  house. 

•  •••••• 

Look  thou  with  good  heed  to  the  wiles  of  thy 
friends ;  but  little  skill  is  given  to  me,  that  I  should 
foresee  the  ways  of  thy  life;  yet  good  it  were  that 
hate  fell  not  on  thee  from  those  of  thy  wife's  house.' 


70  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Sigurd  spake,  'None  among  the  sons  of  men  can  be 
found  wiser  than  thou;  and  thereby  swear  I,  that 
thee  will  I  have  as  my  own,  for  near  to  my  heart 
thou  liest.' 

She  answers,  'Thee  would  I  fainest  choose,  though 
I  had  all  men's  sons  to  choose  from.' 

And  thereto  they  plighted  troth  both  of  them."  * 

It  is  so  far  away,  yet  so  near — this  Sigurd- 
Brynhild  story.  What  universality  of  human 
emotions,  what  majestic  simplicity  of  expres- 
sion, what  strength  and  beauty  of  character, 
what  permanent  wisdom  it  contains.  To  read 
it  is  like  a  draught  from  some  pure  mountain 
spring  in  the  midst  of  a  primeval  forest. 

Had  Sigurd  been  able  to  follow  the  wise 
teachings  of  Brynhild,  all  would  have  been 
well,  but  Fate  willed  otherwise.  So  Sigurd, 
riding  to  King  Guild's  palace,  is  given  the 
magic  drink  by  Queen  Grimhild  and  married 
to  her  daughter,  Gudrun.  In  his  bewildered 
state,  he  lends  himself  to  the  scheme  of  Gun- 
nar,  Gudrun's  brother,  to  deceiving  Brynhild 
into  marrying  Gunnar  as  the  one  who  had 
freed  her  from  the  fire.  Through  the  taunt- 
ing of  Brynhild  by  Gudrun  the  deceptions  are 

*  The  Story  of  the  Volsungs,  pp.  76,  77. 


PRIMITIVE  SOURCES  OF  ART  71 

discovered.    Sigurd  comes  to  his  senses,  urges 
Brynhild  to  accept  him  even  now ;  but  she : 

"  'Such  words  may  nowise  be  spoken,  nor  will  I 
have  two  kings  in  one  hall;  I  will  lay  my  life  down 
rather  than  beguile  Gunnar  the  King.  ...  I  swore 
an  oath  to  wed  the  man  who  should  ride  my  naming 
fire,  and  that  oath  will  I  hold  to,  or  die.'  "  * 

So  woe  is  heaped  on  woe.  Sigurd  is  mur- 
dered through  Gunnar's  scheming,  at  Bryn- 
hild's  demand.  Brynhild,  slaying  herself, 
prophesies  the  woes  to  come,  and  prays  as  a 
last  boon  to  be  burned  on  the  funeral  pyre 
with  Sigurd — 

"  'And  lay  there  betwixt  us  a  drawn  sword,  as  in 
the  other  days  when  we  twain  stepped  into  one  bed  to- 
gether ;  and  then  may  we  have  the  name  of  man  and 
wife,  nor  shall  the  door  swing  to  at  the  heel  of  him 
as  I  go  behind  him.'  "  f 

How  big  it  is  with  the  elemental  forces  of 
life.  Here  is  no  low  intrigue,  no  finesse  of 
modern  deception,  the  very  wrong  is  on  the 
scale  of  majesty,  inextricably  interwoven  with 

*  The  Story  of  the  Volsungs,  p.  107. 
t  Ibid.,  p.  124. 


72  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

the  fate  of  life.  How  wild,  loyal,  fierce  in  hate, 
strong  in  love,  true  in  instinct,  this  splendid 
Brynhild  is :  a  type  of  glorious  and  tragic  wom- 
anhood for  all  time.  How  the  pessimism  of  a 
Schopenhauer,  the  wail  of  a  modern  Leopardi 
pale  beside  this  elemental  tragedy! 

Gudrun,  overshadowed  by  Brynhild,  lend- 
ing herself  to  her  mother's  deception  to  win 
Sigurd,  has  her  own  majesty  and  suffers  her 
own  bitterness.  I  know  nothing  else  in  primi- 
tive literature  more  profoundly  moving  in 
spirit,  more  tensely  impressive  in  form  than 
the  stanzas  of  the  Elder  Edda  giving  the  woe 
of  Gudrun  over  Sigurd  dead: 

"Gudrun  of  old  days 
Drew  near  to  dying 
As  she  sat  in  sorrow 
Over  Sigurd; 
Yet  she  sighed  not 
Nor  smote  hand  on  hand, 
Nor  wailed  she  aught 
As  other  women. 

Then  went  earls  to  her, 
Full  of  all  wisdom, 
Fain  help  to  deal 
To  her  dreadful  heart : 


PRIMITIVE  SOURCES  OF  ART  73 

Hushed  was  Gudrun 
Of  wail,  or  greeting, 
But  with  a  heavy  woe 
Was  her  heart  a-breaking. 

Then  spake  Giaflaug, 

Guiki's  sister: 

<Lo  upon  earth 

I  live  most  loveless 

Who  of  five  mates 

Must  see  the  ending, 

Of  daughters  twain 

And  three  sisters, 

Of  brethren  eight, 

And  abide  behind  lonely.' 

Naught  gat  Gudrun 
Of  wail  and  greeting, 
So  heavy  was  she 
For  her  dead  husband, 
So  dreadful-hearted 
For  the  King  laid  dead  there. 
•  •  •  •  • 

Then  spake  Gullrond, 
Guiki's  daughter — 
*O  foster-mother, 
Wise  as  thou  mayst  be, 


74  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Naught  canst  thou  better 
The  young  wife's  bale.' 
And  she  bade  uncover 
The  dead  King's  corpse. 

She  swept  the  sheet 
Away  from  Sigurd, 
And  turned  his  cheek 
Towards  his  wife's  knees — 
'Look  on  thy  loved  one 
Lay  lips  to  his  lips, 
E'en  as  thou  wert  clinging 
To  thy  king  alive  yet !' 

Once  looked  Gudrun — 
One  look  only, 
And  saw  her  lord's  locks 
Lying  all  bloody, 
The  great  man's  eyes 
Glazed  and  deadly, 
And  his  heart's  bulwark 
Broken  by  sword-edge. 

Back  then  sank  Gudrun, 
Back  on  the  bolster, 
Loosed  was  her  head  array, 
Red  did  her  cheeks  grow, 
And  the  rain-drops  ran 
Down  over  her  knees. 


PRIMITIVE  SOURCES  OF  ART  75 

Then  wept  Gudrun, 

Guiki's  daughter, 

So  that  the  tears  flowed 

Through  the  pillow; 

As  the  geese  withal 

That  were  in  the  homefield, 

The  fair  fowls  the  may  owned, 

Fell  a-screaming."  * 

The  tragedy  seems  cosmic  in  the  sweep  of 
its  impressiveness ;  the  very  weeping  of  Gu- 
drun is  like  a  storm  rending  some  northern 
forest.  What  a  depth  and  reach  there  is  in 
it  all  of  the  simple  universal  elements  that 
make  life  in  all  time!  Love,  hate,  struggle, 
death,  pride,  grief — all  are  here,  and  with  what 
wondrous  vitality.  If  the  passions  seem  more 
ruthless  and  the  woe  more  overwhelming  than 
in  life  to-day,  that  is  only  because  primitive 
men  stood  closer  to  the  great  realities  of  life, 
with  no  barrier  of  convention  between.  Their 
senses  were  un jaded,  their  emotions  fresh  and 
violent.  They  lived  closer  to  the  dawn  and 
the  sunshine,  the  rain  and  the  cold.  Night 
and  its  stars  arched  over  them,  and  they  met 
the  world  with  untired  wonder.  This  is  em- 

*Tho  Story  of  the   Volsungg,  pp.  114-118. 


76  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

bodied  in  their  very  language  which  was  nat- 
ural metaphor.  What  our  poetry  accom- 
plishes in  a  phrase  or  a  made  figure,  they  ex- 
pressed in  a  word,  since  every  word  we  use 
for  a  spiritual  concept  was  once  a  natural  meta- 
phor, carrying  physical  association.  "Ghost" 
and  "spirit"  were  alike  the  "breath";  to  be 
"corrupted"  was  to  be  crumbled  up  in  charac- 
ter as  rocks  or  earth  crumble  with  the  spring 
frost.*  So  in  all  primitive  description  meta- 
phor precedes  simile,  the  wild  outpourings  of 
Beowulf  come  at  an  earlier  racial  epoch  than 
the  smooth  comparisons  of  Homer. 

So  primitive  art  is  true,  with  a  simple  ethical 
earnestness  coming  from  a  sound  direct  reac- 
tion upon  life.  In  form  it  is  artistic,  with  a 
natural  spontaneity  equalled  only  in  the  high- 
est achievements  of  the  conscious  artist  of  later 
times.  With  what  unconscious  skill  it  uses  just 
the  word,  the  image  that  carries  the  thought, 
repeating  the  vital  phrase  at  the  recurring 


*  "He  who  spake  first  of  a  'dilapidated'  fortune,  what  an 
image  must  have  risen  up  before  his  mind's  eye  of  some 
falling  house  or  palace,  stone  detaching  itself  from  stone,  till 
all  had  gradually  sunk  into  desolation  and  ruin." — Supl6e's 
Trench  on  Words,  p.  20.  A.  C.  Armstrong  &  Son,  New  York, 
1887. 


PRIMITIVE  SOURCES  OF  ART  77 

crisis  of  its  dramatic  situation.  With  what 
fugue-like  solemnity  the  song  of  Gudrun's 
lament  repeats  the  dirge  of  its  refrain: 

"Naught  gat  Gudrun 
Of  wail  or  greeting;" 

the  repetition  being  given  with  just  change 
enough  to  grip  the  imagination.  Thus  all  great 
qualities  of  art  are  here,  with  the  inevitable 
naturalness  of  deep  child-like  appreciation. 

As  in  this  Norse  literature,  so  everywhere, 
the  earliest  art  is  the  working  over  and  writing 
down  of  the  store  of  primitive  legends  ac- 
cumulated through  centuries  of  racial  life. 
The  mythology  and  religion  of  those  ages  pre- 
ceding the  dawn  of  recorded  history  are  thus 
the  great  source  from  which  the  arts  spring. 
So,  too,  these  form  the  permanent  storehouse 
of  material  and  of  vital  inspiration  to  which 
the  arts  must  perpetually  return.  As  Antaeus 
was  renewed  in  strength  when  he  touched 
again  his  mother,  the  earth,  so  the  late-born 
artist,  surrounded  by  a  conventional  civiliza- 
tion, with  jaded  senses  and  tired  heart,  is  born 
anew  when  he  bathes  in  these  fountains  that 
flow  at  the  dawn  of  civilization.  Compare  the 


78  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

use  of  Greek  mythology  in  classic  sculpture, 
renaissance  painting  and  Elizabethan  poetry. 
Remember  the  wealth  of  Christian  and  He- 
braic story  in  Italian  painting  and  English 
poetry.  Tennyson's  use  of  Celtic  legend  and 
Wagner's  of  the  Norse  are  but  two  of  the 
multitude  of  illustrations  of  this  turning  back- 
ward to  the  springs  of  racial  life  for  material 
and  inspiration. 


"It  is  precisely  minds  of  the  first  order  that  will  never  be 
specialists.  For  their  very  nature  is  to  make  the  whole  of 
existence  their  problem;  and  this  is  a  subject  upon  which  they 
will  every  one  of  them  in  some  form  provide  mankind  with  a 
new  revelation." — Schopenhauer,  The  Art  of  Literature,  p.  55. 

"People  always  fancy  that  we  must  become  old  to  be- 
come wise;  but,  in  truth,  as  years  advance,  it  is  hard  to  keep 
ourselves  as  wise  as  we  were.  Man  becomes,  indeed,  in  the 
different  stages  of  his  life,  a  different  being;  but  he  cannot 
say  that  he  is  a  better  one,  and,  in  certain  matters,  he  is 
as  likely  to  be  right  in  his  twentieth,  as  in  his  sixtieth  year. 

We  see  the  world  one  way  from  a  plain,  another  way 
from  the  heights  of  a  promontory,  another  from  the 
glacier  fields  of  the  primary  mountains.  We  see,  from  one 
of  these  points,  a  larger  piece  of  the  world  than  from  the 
other;  but  that  is  all,  and  we  cannot  say  that  we  see  more 
truly  from  any  one  than  from  the  rest.  When  a  writer  leaves 
monuments  on  the  different  steps  of  his  life,  it  is  chiefly  im- 
portant that  he  should  have  an  innate  foundation  and  good- 
will; that  he  should,  at  each  step,  have  seen  and  felt  clearly, 
and  that,  without  any  secondary  aims,  he  should  have  said 
distinctly  and  truly  what  has  passed  in  his  mind.  Then  will 
his  writings,  if  they  were  right  at  the  step  where  they  origi- 
nated, remain  always  right,  however  the  writer  may  develop 
or  alter  himself  in  after  times." — Goethe,  Conversations  with 
Eckermann  and  Soret,  p.  512. 


80 


CHAPTER    IV 

DEFINING  FORCES   BEHIND   ART: 
THE  ARTIST 

SO  far  we  have  been  considering  "the  com- 
mon nature  of  the  arts  and  the  generic 
sources  from  which  they  all  spring.  Now 
we  are  to  study  those  influences  which  deter- 
mine the  specific  characteristics  of  a  master- 
piece. (^It  has  been  shown  that  the  first  cause 
of  the  unique  appeal  of  each  work  of  art  is 
that  the  common  basis  of  human  experience 
finds  expression  only  through  the  medium  of 
the  artist's  personality;  thus  inevitably  his 
character  and  experience  must  in  some  meas- 
ure stamp  themselves  upon  all  that  he  pro- 
duces^, This  is  true  even  of  the  most  objective 
and  imitative  work.  Let  an  accident  occur 
and  be  witnessed  by  a  hundred  persons;  let 
each  of  these  write  out  faithfully  an  account  of 
what  he  saw:  there  would  be  a  hundred  vary- 
ing stories,  no  two  identical.  Moreover,  a 
good  reader  of  character  could  tell  something 

81 


82  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

of  the  quality  of  the  different  personalities 
from  the  accounts  written.  To  narrate  an  in- 
cident is  to  give  something  of  the  narrator  as 
well  as  the  incident.  How  much  more  then 
when  the  work  is  bodied  forth  from  the  creative 
personality  of  the  artist.  Take,  for  illustra- 
tion, what  may  be  regarded  as  a  purely  ob- 
jective dramatic  study — a  play  that  has  come 
to  wide  fame  through  musical  setting  and  stage 
portrayal — Oscar  Wilde's  Salome.  Here  is  a 
study  of  a  phase  of  human  perversity,  the  type 
of  fascinatingly  repulsive  woman  who  repre- 
sents the  most  subtle  and  refined  form  of  de- 
pravity in  modern  life;  yet,  objective  as  it  is, 
who  would  have  been  interested  and  able  to 
portray  it  except  the  sensitive,  strangely  gift- 
ed, morbid  genius,  Oscar  Wilde?  Is  it  an 
accident  that  his  thought  brooded  for  many 
years  over  the  seductively  repellent  theme  be- 
fore the  play  was  written? 

No  music  lover  can  mistake  the  characteris- 
tic work  of  Beethoven  for  that  of  Mozart. 
What  makes  the  difference?  To  answer,  one 
must  turn  to  the  lives  and  temperaments  of 
the  two  men.  In  Mozart's  case  one  must  re- 
member the  sweet,  open  disposition,  the  happy 


THE  ARTIST  83 

home  and  sunny  temper,  the  genial  friendliness 
and  delight  in  social  play,  the  amazing  youth- 
ful genius,  resulting  in  an  astounding  range 
of  compositions  in  childhood,  and  concert  tours 
in  which  his  fame  as  child  prodigy  was  univer- 
sal, without  spoiling  his  modest  and  fine  char- 
acter. Absorbed  wholly  in  music,  he  enjoyed 
regular  and  admirable  education  in  his  art 
under  the  excellent  discipline  of  his  gifted 
father.  Struggles  and  disappointments  in  the 
period  of  young  manhood  he  had  to  endure, 
it  is  true,  with  difficult  financial  circumstances 
(accentuated  by  his  cheerful  carelessness)  re- 
curring to  the  end  of  his  brief  life.  Yet  these 
shadows  could  not  permanently  cloud  his  viva- 
cious spirit ;  and  he  continued  to  compose  with 
a  celerity,  sureness  and  consistent  beauty,  such 
as  can  result  only  from  the  highest  natural 
gifts  existing  in  the  happiest  combination. 
Can  one  not  then  understand  why  his  works 
uniformly  delight  and  rest  us  with  entrancing 
melodies,  smooth  harmonies  and  a  perfect  unity 
of  idea  and  execution? 

With  Beethoven,  on  the  other  hand,  one 
must  recall  the  sad  childhood,  the  tragic  home 
with  a  drunken  father,  the  early  contact  with 


84  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

the  sordid  miseries  of  life,  the  temperamental 
intensity,  pride  and  isolation.  His  develop- 
ment was  slow  and  painful,  carried  out  by 
hard  effort,  and  in  the  face  of  halting  and 
inadequate  public  response.  Then,  when  his 
wonderful  genius  had  overcome  the  obstacles 
in  his  path  and  arrived  at  full  expression,  de- 
scended upon  him  at  thirty  that  frightful  curse, 
the  destruction  of  the  very  sense  of  hearing 
through  which  he  could  enjoy  his  own  art. 
Thus  shut  off  from  his  kind,  proud  and  soli- 
tary as  Prometheus  upon  Caucasus,  gnawed 
ever  by  the  vulture  of  suffering,  going  forward 
in  his  lonely  silence  by  sheer  indomitable  will 
to  the  creation  of  his  masterpieces — composi- 
tions which  he,  alas !  could  not  hear  except  with 
the  inner  ear  of  the  soul, — Beethoven  achieved 
that  music,  smiting  in  titanic  majesty,  un- 
paralleled in  compelling  power  and  sombre 
grandeur,  born  of  will  and  intellect  striving 
with  fate.  Thus  the  difference  in  the  music 
of  Mozart  and  Beethoven  is  but  the  expression 
of  the  contrast  in  character  and  experience  of 
the  two  men. 

Fra  Angelico  and  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  both 
worked  in  Florence  in  the  same  period — the 


THE  ARTIST  85 

happy  forenoon  of  renaissance  art.  They  grew 
up  alike  under  the  same  general  influences  in 
painting;  yet  their  works  are  opposite  in  char- 
acter. Fra  Angelico's  are  purely  spiritual, 
lifted  away  from  the  earth,  each  painting  being 
an  act  of  worship ;  while  Fra  Lippo  Lippi's  are 
sweetly  natural,  all  of  the  earth  with  its  sen- 
suous charm,  the  subjects  nominally  religious 
but  with  really  no  spiritual  significance.  What 
explains  the  contrast? 

Let  one  recall  Fra  Angelico's  saintly  char- 
acter and  natural  call  to  the  monastic  life,  his 
early  retired  years  in  Tuscany,  the  removal  to 
Umbria  in  the  fresh  responsiveness  of  young 
manhood,  where  he  came  under  the  spell  of 
St.  Francis  and  the  spiritual  aspiration  of  the 
middle  age,  the  return  to  Florence  and  the 
eighteen  years  of  brooding  in  the  monastery 
on  the  height  of  Fiesole,  overlooking  the  beau- 
tiful Arno  valley.  Is  it  any  wonder  that,  when 
the  Medici  called  him  down  from  Fiesole  to 
Florence  to  adorn  the  newly  rebuilt  monas- 
tery of  San  Marco,  he  covered  its  walls  with 
those  exquisitely  spiritual  frescoes:  painting 
in  the  lunette  over  a  door  in  the  cloister  arcade 
that  Christ,  welcomed,  with  human  tenderness, 


86  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

as  guest  by  two  Dominican  brothers,  that  half- 
length  mystic  Christ  rising  from  the  tomb ;  or, 
in  the  corridor  above,  Mary  and  the  Angel  of 
the  Annunciation,  lifted  above  the  human,  the 
supreme  moment  given  on  the  background  of  a 
bit  of  monastery  garden?  Nearly  every  cell  is 
frescoed  with  paintings  of  similar  spiritual 
character.  Here  a  Christ  on  the  cross,  with 
a  group  of  mourning  women  and  saints  of  the 
church  gathered  about;  there  a  sweet,  deep- 
eyed  Jesus  child,  on  the  mother's  lap,  looking 
out  and  beyond.  One  readily  believes  that  Fra 
Angelico  knelt  in  prayer  before  daring  to  paint 
a  picture,  so  entirely  is  each  of  his  paintings  an 
act  of  worship,  expressing  his  implicit  faith 
and  unworldly  aspiration. 

With  Fra  Lippo  one  must  remember  the 
orphaned  and  vagabond  childhood,  his  early 
abandonment  to  the  monastic  life  (for  which 
he  had  no  call)  by  the  surviving  relative  whose 
only  wish  apparently  was  to  be  rid  of  the  child's 
support,  the  stories  of  his  romantic  adventures, 
which,  even  if  the  wildest  of  them  be  disbe- 
lieved, sufficiently  indicate  his  character  and 
experience.  Let  one  recall  the  legend,  ac- 
cepted evidently  without  question  by  those  who 


THE  ARTIST  87 

regarded  themselves  as  his  descendants,  of  his 
carrying  away  to  his  home  the  novice,  Lucrezia 
Buti,  who  served  as  his  model  while  painting 
the  frescoes  at  Prato,  of  his  union  with  her 
from  which  Filippino  Lippi  was  born.  Can- 
not one  then  understand  why  Fra  Lippo's 
angels  are  sweet  girls  from  Prato  and  Flor- 
ence, why  he  paints  the  charm  of  nature,  the 
faces  of  monks  and  worldlings  just  as  they 
were,  why  there  is  no  spiritual  appeal  in  all  his 
work,  while  his  demure  madonnas  seem  ever 
about  to  break  into  a  laugh  as  if  they  too  ap- 
preciated the  absurdity  of  Fra  Lippo  Lippi's 
attempting  to  paint  madonnas? 

Let  us  take  a  brief  concrete  illustration  from 
a  field  of  art,  poetry,  that  may  be  introduced 
here.  The  two  masters  who  divided  the  leader- 
ship of  English  poetry  during  the  middle  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  each  left,  fortunately 
for  our  purpose,  a  brief  confession  of  faith  in 
beautiful  poetic  form,  written  toward  the  close 
of  life.  Tennyson  asked  that  Crossing  the  Bar 
be  placed  at  the  end  of  every  complete  edition 
of  his  works,  while  Browning's  Epilogue  to 
Asolando  appeared  as  the  concluding  poem 
of  the  little  book  which  was  published  on  the 


88  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

day  of  the  author's  death.  Thus  we  are  war- 
ranted in  taking  these  as  final  confessions  of 
the  two  masters.  Both  artists  were  English- 
men, contemporaries,  subject  to  much  the  same 
influences;  yet  compare  the  two  expressions, 
turning  first  to  Tennyson. 

CROSSING  THE  BAR.* 

"Sunset  and  evening  star, 
And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 
When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 

When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark ; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 

I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar." 

*  Tennyson,   Works,  p.  837.  Macmillan  &  Co.,  New  York, 
1893. 


THE  ARTIST  89 

Tennyson's  lyric  makes  its  full  impression 
at  a  single  reading.  There  is  no  doubt  as  to 
its  meaning,  and  this  is  given  with  the  direct 
simplicity  of  the  highest  art.  The  imagery  is 
majestic,  restrained  and  entirely  clear.  The 
music  is  so  liquid  and  pellucid  that  to  attempt 
to  set  the  lyric  to  music  is  usually  to  lower  the 
moving  beauty  of  its  melody.  The  whole  poem 
is  an  example  of  art  so  perfect  as  to  seem 
spontaneous  nature,  yet  consciously  molded  in 
every  detail  of  its  construction.  This  is  par- 
ticularly evident  in  the  music,  which  depends 
not  only  upon  the  open,  liquid  sound  of  the 
words,  but  still  more  on  the  handling  of  the 
meter.  The  stanzas  are  all  simple  quatrains, 
dominately  in  iambic  measure — the  simplest 
foot  in  English  ;*  yet  with  subtle  changes  pro- 

*  It  should  be  noted  that  methods  of  scansion  drawn  from 
Greek  and  Latin  poetry  do  not  strictly  apply  to  English. 
Classic  poetry  depended  mainly  upon  time  measurement,  so 
that  it  is  possible  to  measure  the  syllables  with  the  accuracy 
of  notes  of  music.  Our  poetry  depends  mainly  upon  accent. 
Where  the  classic  said  long  and  short  syllables,  we  must 
say  strong  and  weak,  or  accented  and  unaccented.  It  is 
true  we  use  the  principle  of  time  measurement,  since  we 
inevitably  give  more  time  to  the  accented  syllables,  but  with 
nothing  of  the  exactness  of  classic  poetry.  Thus  when  we 
use  the  terms  of  classic  scansion  we  must  recognize  that 
they  have  different  meaning  in  application  to  our  poetry. 
An  iambus  is  a  foot  with  one  unaccented  and  one  accented 


90  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

ducing  the  most  artistic  effect.  The  first  line, 
for  example,  scanned  prosaically  would  read: 

v     —         w         •»        v          ••• 

Sunset  and  evening  star; 
but  it  is  not  that  at  all.    It  is  : 

Sunset  and  evening  star ; 

really  two  dactyls  and  a  strong  syllable.  Note 
how  the  change  brings  out  the  hinging  words, 
"sunset"  and  "star,"  on  which  the  imagery  and 
meaning  of  the  poem  alike  depend. 

The  second  line  is  a  regular  three-foot  iam- 
bic; the  third  a  long  swinging  line  of  five  feet, 
which  we  tend  to  read  more  rapidly;  while 
the  movement  slows  down  again  in  the  closing 
three-foot,  monosyllabic  line. 

The  second  stanza  begins  with  the  long 
sweeping  five-foot  line,  followed  by  a  slower 
three-foot  line,  again  monosyllabic;  then  once 

syllable,  represented  ^-s  — .  It  is  the  simplest  foot  in  Eng- 
lish, because  our  language  moves  naturally  in  that  order  of 
syllables.  It  is  possible  to  take  whole  passages  of  the  prose 
of  deep  feeling  (as  from  De  Quincey)  and  scan  them  as 
iambic  verse  by  changing  an  occasional  word  or  syllable. 


THE  ARTIST  91 

more  the  five  feet ;  while  the  last  line  is  irregu- 
lar in  meter  like  the  first  in  the  poem.  Scanned 
as  regular  iambic,  it  would  be: 

Turns  again  horn*. 
On  the  contrary  it  reads : 

Turns  again  home. 

making  really  one  dactyl  and  one  strong  syl- 
lable. With  what  inexpressible  tenderness  and 
impressiveness  that  hinging  word  of  the  whole 
poem,  "home,"  is  borne  in  upon  us  by  the 
melody,  through  the  slight  irregularity  of  the 
meter. 

Once  more  the  same  irregularity  occurs — at 
the  beginning  of  stanza  three : 

Twilight  and  evening  bell. 

Again  it  is  the  definitive,  image-carrying  words 
of  the  poem  which  receive  the  impressive  ac- 
cent. Don't  think  these  variations  accidental : 
there  are  no  accidents  in  art.  Often  the  artist 


92  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

may  not  be  conscious  of  certain  details  of  his 
technique;  but  he  is  poet  just  because  he 
chooses  instinctively  the  melodiously  appropri- 
ate word  and  the  inevitable  meter.  With  Ten- 
nyson, however,  preeminently  conscious  artist, 
working  deliberately  for  effects  after  a  life- 
time of  technical  training,  it  is  hard  not  to  be- 
lieve that  results  such  as  those  cited  above  were 
planned  and  consciously  molded. 

In  content  the  poem  expresses  the  matured 
faith  of  Tennyson's  life,  attained  after  battling 
with  doubt  in  the  arena  of  his  century,  facing 
and  accepting,  if  reluctantly,  the  last  general- 
izations of  science,  and  journeying  through  the 
"Divine  Comedy"  of  In  Memoriam.  It  is  sim- 
ply the  generic  heart  of  Christianity,  freed 
from  limitations  of  sect  and  eccentricities  of 
dogma,  lifted  and  voiced  in  its  essential  mean- 
ing for  the  soul  of  man.  From  the  question- 
ings of  his  own  mind  and  the  feverish  and 
clouded  struggles  of  his  time,  Tennyson  turns 
to  rest  on  the  bosom  of  this  faith  of  so  many 
generations  of  humanity,  and  in  so  doing  finds 
peace. 


THE  ARTIST  93 

Now  turn  to  Browning: 

EPILOGUE  TO  ASOLANDO.* 

"At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free. 
Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,   fools  think, 

imprisoned — 

Low  he   lies   who   once   so   loved  you,   whom   you 
loved  so, 
—Pity  me? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken ! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 

With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 

— Being — who  ? 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast 
forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong 

would  triumph, 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

*  Browning,  Works,  Camberwell  edition,  vol.  XII,  pp.  267, 
268.    Crowell  &  Co.,   New  York,   1898. 


94  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer ! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should 

be, 
'Strive  and  thrive !'  cry  'Speed, — fight  on,  fare  ever 

There  as  here !'  " 

One  is  first  of  all  impressed  with  the  diffi- 
culty in  reading  the  poem.  It  does  not  yield 
up  its  heart  at  once :  one  must  know  in  advance 
something  of  the  situation  implied  even  to  un- 
derstand its  meaning.  One  must  think  of 
Browning  as  speaking  to  some  intimate  friend 
with  reference  to  that  friend's  thought  of  him 
when  death  has  taken  him.  Will  you  pity  me, 
I  being  who?  In  the  latter  half  of  the  poem 
Browning  answers  splendidly  the  question,  af- 
firming who  he  is,  and  proclaiming  what  should 
be  the  sound  attitude  toward  one  who,  after 
fighting  straightforwardly,  with  unfaltering 
courage  and  faith,  the  battle  here,  has  passed 
on  to  the  next  chapter  in  the  unseen. 

The  imagery  is  strong  and  fresh,  but  in- 
volved, passing  quickly  from  one  suggested 
picture  to  another,  with  nothing  of  the  calm  re- 
strained vision  of  Tennyson.  The  music  is  any- 
thing but  pellucid,  yet  music  undoubtedly  there 


THE  ARTIST  95 

is.  The  verse  is  trochaic  (  -  ^ ) ,  further  away 
from  common  speech  than  iambic  and  more 
difficult  to  write.  The  lines  are  most  irregular 
in  length,  varying  from  the  dominant  long  six- 
foot  line,  opening  each  stanza,  to  the  incisive, 
short,  truncated  two-foot  line  with  which  each 
closes.  In  the  entire  five-line  stanza  there  are 
but  two  lines  rhymed — the  second  and  last, 
both  short  lines;  and  the  single  rhyme  thus 
brings  the  music  of  the  stanza  back  into  itself, 
thus  clinching  the  effect.  All  these  elements 
of  fresh,  irregular  music  unite  with  the  virile 
but  often  unmelodious  words  in  a  strong,  in- 
spiring trumpet  call.  If  Tennyson's  music  is 
like  the  melodious  wash  of  the  slow-moving 
waves  of  a  summer  sea  upon  the  sand,  this 
music  is  like  the  music  of  a  North  Sea  storm. 

Equally  striking  is  the  contrast  with  Tenny- 
son in  thought.  Browning's  faith  is  also  in  a 
deep  sense  Christian,  but  it  does  not  depend 
upon  the  centuries  of  historic  belief  and  the 
record  of  what  happened  in  the  past,  as  Ten- 
nyson's. On  the  contrary,  it  springs  directly 
from  life.  Because  life  has  justified  itself  in 
so  far  as  one  has  struggled  toward  the  best, 
each  chapter  of  pain  or  joy,  failure  or  achieve- 


96  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

merit,  finding  its  significance  in  the  growing 
man  who  is  at  each  point  the  net  resultant  of 
all  his  yesterdays,  Browning  dares  to  believe 
that  the  untried  will  justify  itself  also,  even  in 
the  dark  shadow  of  death  at  the  end  of  the 
path,  and  the  unseen  that  lies  past  its  mystery. 
His  unquestioning  faith  in  immortality  springs 
from  his  life  itself,  in  his  simply  daring  to  be- 
lieve that  the  little  arc  of  his  experience  some- 
how gives  the  curve  of  the  infinite  circle  of 
God's  truth. 

Hence  the  function  of  the  two  men  in  rela- 
tion to  the  modern  spirit.  Tennyson  voiced 
the  weight  of  despair  that  came  with  the  dis- 
coveries and  generalizations  of  modern  science, 
the  stumbling 

"Upon  the  great  world's  altar  stairs 
That  slope  through  darkness  up  to  God,"  * 

the  wail  of  the  child  in  the  dark  and  the  serene 
answer  of  historic  faith,  achieved  through  his 
own  struggles  in  the  Gethsemane  of  suffering. 
Browning,  on  the  other  hand,  voiced  a  range 
of  ideas  still  beyond  us,  shining  like  stars  in  the 

*  In  Memoriam,  canto   LV. 


THE  ARTIST  97 

heaven  of  the  spirit  to  guide  our  path.  No 
wonder  Tennyson  was  the  most  popular  poet 
of  his  time ;  while  Browning,  losing  any  large 
public  response  for  the  middle  twenty  years  of 
his  creative  life,  has  still  to  wait  for  his  full 
audience. 

Thus  behind  each  of  these  lyric  confessions 
is  the  whole  personality  and  experience  of  the 
artist.  It  is  no  accident  that  Tennyson  post- 
poned his  personal  happiness  in  marriage  for 
twenty  years  for  the  sake  of  his  art;  while 
Browning's  marriage — practically  an  elope- 
ment, under  circumstances  to  which  every  bio- 
logical and  prudential  counsel  would  have  been 
opposed,  but  which  in  this  instance  was  right 
— was  a  splendid  masculine  response  to  a  great 
call  of  personal  life.  Tennyson  was  sensitive, 
shy,  aristocratic  and  retiring,  looking  out  from 
the  seclusion  of  his  watch-tower  on  the  world 
of  humanity,  and  solacing  himself  with  a  won- 
derland of  chivalric  dreams.  Browning  was 
forceful,  impetuous,  masculine,  democratic  in 
sympathy,  interested  in  every  phase  of  man 
and  woman,  and  living  vigorously  in  the  world. 
Tennyson  lived  to  write ;  in  a  profoundly  true 
sense  Browning  wrote  to  live.  Thus  all  that 


98  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

the  man  was,  in  each  instance,  is  incarnate  in 
the  two  perfect  bits  of  art. 

It  will  be  said  that  it  is  the  biographies  of 
these  men  that  help  us  to  understand  the  art. 
Yes,  the  principle  works  both  ways;  but  con- 
trast the  revelation  of  personality  in  a  work  of 
art  with  what  is  given  in  the  usual  biography. 
The  tendency  of  biography  is  to  give  chiefly 
external  incident,  which  gossip  may  seize  upon 
and  which  is  truly  interpreted  only  in  relation 
to  the  character.  "By  their  fruits  ye  shall 
know  them,"  if  you  know  all  the  fruit;  but  to 
judge  the  tree  by  one  accidentally  rotten 
apple  at  the  end  of  the  bough  is  surely  unfair ; 
yet  that  is  what  we  do  constantly  in  estimating 
human  beings.  Art,  on  the  other  hand,  con- 
fesses, not  the  incident  of  the  life,  but  the  soul 
of  the  character,  so  that  we  get  the  confession 
only  when  we  rise  to  the  plane  on  which  it  is 
given.  Thus  such  an  expression  of  the  heart 
of  life  can  scarcely  be  misunderstood.  We 
either  get  it,  or  fail  to  get  it. 

Of  Andrea  del  Sarto,  for  instance,  we  have 
a  gossipy  biography  by  Vasari.  We  know  his 
facile  genius,  early  successes,  his  timid  spirit 
and  the  insignificant  returns  he  received  for 


THE  ARTIST  99 

his  work.  We  have  the  more  or  less  trust- 
worthy story  of  his  apparently  unworthy  love 
affair  and  marriage,  and  sad  personal  life. 
Vasari  ought  to  have  known  the  incidents  with 
reasonable  accuracy,  since  he  worked  for  a 
time  as  pupil  in  Andrea's  studio. 

Put  it  all  aside,  and  stand  in  the  presence  of 
those  strangely  elusive  paintings  that  are 
everywhere  in  Florence:  that  Madonna  of  the 
Harpies  with  the  sensuously  molded  body  and 
beautiful  oval  face,  but  with  no  touch  of  con- 
scious motherhood  toward  the  child  in  her 
arms;  that  young  St.  John  with  the  wonder- 
fully lucent  eyes,  promising  to  be  the  master- 
piece— the  masculine  counterpart  of  the 
Sistine  Madonna,  but  which,  after  your  hour 
before  it,  you  sadly  acknowledge  just  misses 
its  aim;  that  Deposition  from  the  Cross  with 
its  play  of  light  and  shadow,  the  wonderful 
white  body  of  the  dead  Christ,  the  restrained 
sorrowing  of  the  mother  and  passionate  out- 
pouring of  human  grief  in  Mary  Magdalen. 
Go  out  to  San  Salvi  and  study  his  marvelous 
Last  Supper,  strong  yet  delicate  in  color,  sub- 
tle in  its  psychology,  interpreting  the  inner  life 
with  a  sensitiveness  and  appreciation  worthy 


100  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

of  modern  times.  Almost  every  one  of  the  dis- 
ciples seems  asking  himself  the  question, 
"Could  I  do  it?";  while  of  all  the  faces  the 
most  powerfully  moving  is  the  Judas,  who  sits 
at  the  right  hand  of  Christ.  Leaning  forward 
on  the  balls  of  his  feet,  one  hand  pressed 
against  his  breast,  the  other  stretched  out  in  a 
hopelessly  appealing  gesture,  the  face  wan  and 
sensitive  under  the  tangled  mass  of  hair:  it  is 
the  one  possible  Judas  I  have  seen  in  a  paint- 
ing. Return  to  the  galleries  of  Florence  and 
stand  once  more  before  the  numerous  self- 
portraits  of  Andrea,  painted  in  profile  or  half- 
shadow,  the  face  sensitive  and  hungry — almost 
that  of  his  own  Judas — the  face  of  a  man  who, 
if  he  loved  aright,  could  be  lifted  to  great 
heights  of  achievement,  while  if  his  love  were 
misplaced  he  might  be  led  on  and  down  to 
ruin.  Then  at  last  we  understand  and  may 
even  come  to  say:  I  know  you,  Andrea  del 
Sarto,  across  the  centuries  I  know  your  soul. 
It  is  something  to  be  understood,  is  it  not — 
even  late — when  one  is  filled  with  the  sense  of 
despairing  loneliness  and  the  bitter  ache  of 
failure  gnaws  at  the  heart?  They  did  not  un- 
derstand you — the  people  about  you,  Lucrezia 


THE  ARTIST  101 

and  the  rest;  but  for  any  man  who  has  put 
his  soul  into  forms  of  beauty  the  day  of  ap- 
preciation will  dawn.  It  is  they  who,  despair- 
ing alone,  have  never  been  able  to  sing  the  song 
or  paint  the  picture,  whose  lot  is  most  hard. 

Similarly  we  have  a  record  of  Chopin's  outer 
life.  We  know  his  sensitive,  melancholy  tem- 
perament, his  struggles  and  disappointments, 
something  of  his  love-affairs  and  the  story  of 
his  social  and  artistic  success;  but  how  much 
deeper  is  the  revelation  of  the  man  through 
his  music.  When  we  listen  to  those  strangely 
moving  melodies,  those  harmonies  pushed  al- 
most to  discord,  those  appeals  to  sad  and  ten- 
der sentiment  till  the  very  heart  strings  ache, 
we  come  to  know  the  soul  of  Chopin  with  all 
its  burden  of  revelation,  its  painful  struggles, 
far-reaching  hungers  and  aspirations. 


"We  live  in  this  world  only  that  we  may  go  onward  with- 
out ceasing,  a  peculiar  help  in  this  direction  being  that  one 
enlightens  the  other  by  communicating  his  ideas;  in  the 
sciences  and  fine  arts  there  is  always  more  to  learn." — Mozart, 
in  Kerst,  Mozart:  The  Man  and  the  Artist,  p.  89. 

"I  carry  my  thoughts  about  me  for  a  long  time,  often  a 
very  long  time,  before  I  write  them  down;  meanwhile  my  mem- 
ory is  so  faithful  that  I  am  sure  never  to  forget,  not  even  in 
years,  a  theme  that  has  once  occurred  to  me.  I  change  many 
things,  discard,  and  try  again  until  I  am  satisfied.  Then, 
however,  there  begins  in  my  head  the  development  in  every 
direction,  and,  inasmuch  as  I  know  exactly  what  I  want,  the 
fundamental  idea  never  deserts  me, — it  arises  before  me, 
grows, — I  see  and  hear  the  picture  in  all  its  extent  and  dimen- 
sions stand  before  my  mind  like  a  cast,  and  there  remains 
for  me  nothing  but  the  labor  of  writing  it  down,  which  is 
quickly  accomplished  when  I  have  the  time,  for  I  sometimes 
take  up  other  work,  but  never  to  the  confusion  of  one  with 
the  other.  You  will  ask  me  where  I  get  my  ideas.  That  I 
can  not  tell  you  with  certainty;  they  come  unsummoned,  di- 
rectly, indirectly, — I  could  seize  them  with  my  hands, — out  in 
the  open  air;  in  the  woods;  while  walking;  in  the  silence  of 
the  nights;  early  in  the  morning;  incited  by  moods,  which  are 
translated  by  the  poet  into  words,  by  me  into  tones  that 
sound,  and  roar  and  storm  about  me  until  I  have  set  them 
down  in  notes." — Beethoven,  in  Kerst,  Beethoven:  The  Man 
and  the  Artist,  p.  29. 


102 


CHAPTER    V 

THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  ARTIST  AS 
REVEALED  IN  ART 

IT  is  not  only  that  the  personality  and  ex- 
perience of  the  artist  mold  all  details  of 
his  art,  while  that  in  turn  reveals  his  es- 
sential character.  When  an  artist  has  worked 
through  a  long  period  of  time,  the  different 
aspects  of  his  development  find  full  expres- 
sion in  the  works  coming  in  successive  periods. 
If,  then,  his  works  are  studied  in  the  chrono- 
logical order  in  which  they  were  produced, 
they  reveal  intimately  the  development  of  the 
artist's  mind,  character  and  philosophy.  With 
such  a  master  as  Goethe,  for  example,  passing 
through  many  phases  of  life,  experiencing  a 
succession  of  intellectual,  as  of  personal,  love- 
affairs,  this  becomes  deeply  important.  From 
the  sentimental  romanticism  of  Werther,  the 
wild  outpourings  of  Gotz,  and  the  early  pas- 
sionate scenes  of  Faust,  through  the  classical 
restraint  of  Tasso  and  Iphigenia  to  Wilhelm 

103 


104  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Meister  and  the  noblest  portions  of  Faust,  on 
to  the  profundities  and  obscurities  of  the  last 
written  scenes  of  the  Second  Part  of  Faust— 
how  wonderfully  the  achievement  of  Goethe's 
greatest  work  of  art,  his  personality  and  char- 
acter, is  revealed. 

The  many-sided  modern  genius,  Wagner, 
creator  of  music  first,  but  poet,  dramatic  art- 
ist and  impresario  in  only  lesser  degree,  is 
equally  revealed  in  the  development  of  his 
character  and  life  through  struggles,  adven- 
tures, miseries  and  achievements,  in  the  suc- 
cession of  his  works.  From  his  early  brilliant, 
but  often  bombastic,  compositions,  through 
the  Flying  Dutchman  to  Tannhauser  and  Lo- 
hengrin, in  which  he  found  himself,  on  through 
the  Nibelungen  Ring  and  Tristan  und  Isolde 
to  Parsifal,  what  development  of  genius,  free- 
dom, power  and  of  fundamental  philosophy  of 
life  is  evidenced. 

This  holds  even  with  so  purely  and  consist- 
ently objective  a  dramatist  as  Shakespeare. 
The  tradition  of  his  outer  life  is  dim;  indeed, 
there  are  serious  scholars  who  question  whether 
the  man  who  was  born  at  Stratford-on-the- 
Avon  in  1564  and  died  there  in  1616  really 


DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  ARTIST        105 

wrote  the  dramas  that  bear  his  name;  yet  we 
know  Shakespeare,  not  only  in  the  essentials 
of  his  spirit,  but  in  all  the  unfolding  of  his 
art  and  philosophy  of  life,  merely  through  the 
dramas  themselves.  Modern  scholarship,  ex- 
hausting all  evidence  internal  and  external, 
has  given  us  substantially  the  chronology  of 
the  plays;  and  the  changing  spirit  of  these 
through  the  successive  periods  of  the  master's 
life  reveals  the  master.  Not  that  Shakespeare 
ever  surely  expresses  himself  in  the  words  of 
any  character :  no  other  dramatist  ever  worked 
with  such  consistent  objectivity  as  he.  It  is 
never  Shakespeare  who  speaks,  but  always  the 
dramatic  character*  Twice  we  long  to  identify 
him  with  his  creation ;  but  even  in  Hamlet  and 
Prospero  we  cannot  be  sure;  and  if  Shake- 
speare does  express  himself  through  the  words 
spoken  by  these  two,  it  is  due  to  the  agree- 
ment of  the  dramatic  situation  with  the  cir- 
cumstances and  mood  in  Shakespeare's  own 
life  at  the  time.  Nevertheless,  in  each  of  the 
dramas  the  entire  moral  background  reveals 
the  master.  How  does  the  play  focus  as  a 
whole  in  relation  to  life?  What  elements  are 
brought  into  the  foreground,  what  subordi- 


106  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

nated  or  suppressed?  What  is  the  dominant 
mood  of  the  whole?  The  answers  to  these 
questions  give  Shakespeare. 

In  the  first  play  independently  from  his 
hand — Love's  Labor's  Lost,  produced  prob- 
ably when  he  was  twenty-six,  there  is  nothing 
of  the  ethical  depth  and  profound  grasp  of  the 
laws  of  life  that  mark  his  later  plays.  It  is  full 
of  a  young  man's  exuberant  delight  in  the 
beauty  of  nature  and  the  amazing  variety  of 
human  character  and  action.  With  tiresome 
quibbles  and  adolescent  punning,  its  mood  is 
one  of  pure  joy  in  just  being  able  to  look  out 
on  the  world.  There  is  the  same  warm  interest 
in  every  absurdity  and  eccentricity  of  human 
nature,  as  in  the  nobilities  and  beauties  of  life. 
The  pleasant  little  moral  with  which  the  play 
closes — where  Biron  is  told  to  make  his  jokes 
in  a  hospital  for  one  year  and  cause  the  poor 
sufferers  to  laugh,  and  then,  when  the  sting 
is  gone  from  his  humor,  he  may  hope  to  win 
Rosaline's  hand — is  characteristic  of  the  slight 
ethical  interest  of  the  play. 

The  same  mood  is  in  all  the  early  comedies, 
while  the  one  tragedy  of  the  period,  even 
though  rewritten  later  on,  is  closely  akin.  In 


DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  ARTIST        107 

Romeo  and  Juliet  the  love  is  wholly  on  the 
plane  of  the  senses,  with  the  fresh  awakening 
of  youth.  Juliet,  with  all  her  charm,  is  still 
an  adolescent  heroine.  Suddenly,  among  these 
dramas,  appears  one,  called  a  comedy,  but 
which  involves  deeply  tragic  elements,  with  a 
hero  who  outgrows  his  plot  and  setting;  and 
in  The  Merchant  of  Venice  we  think  we  find 
Shakespeare's  first  deep  awakening  to  the  ethi- 
cal problems  and  laws  of  life;  but  an  awaken- 
ing not  yet  complete.  Unique  among  the 
greater  dramas  of  Shakespeare,  The  Merchant 
of  Venice  closes  with  its  ethical  tendencies  un- 
finished. We  see  Shylock  grow  from  what  we 
thought  was  to  be  a  caricature  of  the  Jew,  into 
a  great  many-sided  character,  with  all  the  no- 
bility and  baseness  of  human  nature  in  him. 
It  was  right  that  he  should  be  balked  of  his 
revenge ;  but  what  of  the  humanity  that  sobbed 
for  the  ring  that  Jessica  bartered  for  a  mon- 
key in  a  night's  debauch?  That  remains  un- 
fulfilled. It  was  right  that  Antonio  should 
be  freed  and  Portia  and  Bassanio  happy;  but 
what  of  the  mean  Jew-baiting  on  the  part  of 
those  who  reach  up  and  take  a  name  that  does 
not  belong  to  them — the  name  of  Christ?  That 


108  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

remains  all  unpunished.  Shakespeare  himself 
seems  to  have  felt  this ;  for  the  play  really  ends 
at  the  close  of  the  fourth  act,  where  Shylock, 
bowed  and  broken,  balked  of  the  one  passion 
into  which  persecution  had  turned  his  human- 
ity, goes  out  alone  into  the  night;  while  the 
"Christians,"  who  have  beautifully  preached 
mercy  and  callously  performed  the  opposite,  go 
merrily  home  to  Belmont.  To  stop  there 
would  be  too  bitter;  and  so  Shakespeare  has 
added  the  beautiful  anticlimax  of  the  fifth 
act,  where  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  the 
bank,  music  sounds  out  its  calming  charm 
and  we  share  the  happy  reunion  of  the  wedded 
lovers. 

Passing  over  the  history  plays,  in  which 
Shakespeare  not  only  expressed  his  patriotism 
but  studied  the  vices  and  perfidies  of  courts 
and  kings,  we  find  him,  at  thirty-five,  turning 
aside  to  rest  himself  and  us  with  that  lovely 
poetic  interlude,  which  well  deserves  its  name 
because  in  it  everything  goes — As  You  Like 
It.  Here  Shakespeare  turns  from  the  big  but 
marred  life  of  human  society  to  the  sincere 
reality  of  Nature  with  the  expression  of  sim- 
ple human  instincts  on  this  background.  With 


DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  ARTIST        109 

all  its  charm,  however,  a  strain  of  pessimism 
runs  through  As  You  Like  It.  It  shows  in  the 
half-humorous  cynicism  of  Jaques,  in  the  mood 
of  reaction  on  the  world  in  other  characters. 
Had  some  shadow  fallen  across  Shakespeare's 
inner  life,  fitting  him  to  deal  with  the  darker 
problems  of  his  great  tragedies?  If  so,  his 
reaction  was  still  youthful.  While  the  char- 
acters of  As  You  Like  It  talk  finely  about  "the 
sweet  uses  of  adversity,"  like  most  of  the 
world,  they  abandon  those  sweet  uses  at  the 
earliest  opportunity;  and  as  they  return  at  the 
end  of  the  play  to  the  larger  life  of  the  world 
again,  so  Shakespeare  makes  his  return  in  that 
unrivaled  series  of  great  tragedies  marking 
the  middle  period  of  his  creative  life. 

How  great  the  development  of  his  mind  and 
spirit  evidenced  in  these !  Grappling  with  the 
relation  of  men  to  the  world-forces  that  strug- 
gle in  the  arena  of  time  in  Julius  Ccesar,  fac- 
ing the  deepest  mystery  of  personality  in 
Hamlet,  portraying  the  destructive  sweep  of 
fierce  passions  in  Othello,  Lear  and  Macbeth, 
unleashing  the  great  biological  energies  of  man 
in  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  with  the  world  as 
the  stake  for  which  they  contend — there  is  no 


110  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

deep  Shakespeare  fails  to  sound,  no  conflict 
he  does  not  seem  to  understand. 

He  did  not  stop  here.  The  late  plays  we 
call  romances,  since  they  include  tragedy  and 
comedy  in  one.  They  end  happily,  but  include 
deeply  tragic  elements.  There  is  far  less  use 
of  dramatic  power,  but  a  new  ethical  spirit 
of  forgiveness,  reconciliation  and  magnanimity 
in  Cymbetine,  The  Winter's  Tale  and  The 
Tempest.  Their  mood  is  one  of  serene  accept- 
ance of  life,  with  light  and  shadow,  pain  and 
joy  mingled.  When  we  read  through  such  a 
fireside  story  of  human  life  as  The  Winter's 
Tale,  enjoy  its  fairy-like  adventures,  respond 
to  its  pain,  and  come  in  the  end  to  the  be- 
trothal of  the  young  lovers  and  the  reunion 
of  the  long  estranged  husband  and  wife,  we 
can  almost  see  Shakespeare  lay  down  his  pen 
with  that  sad,  grave  smile  that  mingles  in  one 
the  laughter  and  tears  that  with  divided  sway 
rule  over  our  common  human  heart.  What  a 
road  he  had  traveled,  and  how  intimately  we 
come  to  know  all  the  significant  phases  in  the 
development  of  his  mind  and  heart,  through 
the  succession  of  the  plays! 

As  a  closing  illustration  of  the  revelation 


DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  ARTIST        111 

of  an  artist's  development  through  his  works, 
consider  for  a  moment  two  masterpieces  of 
Michael  Angelo,  both  presenting  the  same 
theme — the  dead  body  of  Christ  in  the  arms 
of  the  Madonna,  and  coming,  the  one  from 
near  the  beginning,  the  other  at  the  end,  of 
the  master's  working  life. 

The  first  of  these  is  in  the  chapel  on  your 
right  hand  as  you  enter  St.  Peter's  in  Rome. 
After  Michael  Angelo  had  left  Florence  at 
the  crisis  of  the  struggle  between  his  patrons, 
the  Medici,  and  the  great  preacher,  Savona- 
rola, who  had  wakened  him,  he  journeyed 
about  northern  Italy  and  thence  to  Rome, 
where,  not  long  after  the  execution  of 
Savonarola,  he  carved  this  marble  group — 
the  Madonna  supporting  on  her  splendid 
knees  the  dead  body  of  her  son.  The  center 
of  the  work  is  not  the  dead  Christ,  but  the 
Madonna,  who  sustains  easily  the  limp  figure 
across  her  lap.  She  is  like  a  Venus  de  Milo 
made  human  and  Christian  by  centuries  of 
suffering.  She  looks  across  her  dead  son  be- 
yond and  beyond,  in  restrained,  understand- 
ing grief,  as  if  she  knew  that,  in  spite  of  the 
bitter  agony  of  the  present,  the  issue  would  be 


112  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

well.  There  is  hope  through  the  gloom  of  the 
moment  chosen,  strong,  courageous  acceptance 
of  life  with  all  its  pain. 

Behind  the  high  altar  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Florence  stands  the  other  work,  found  unfin- 
ished in  Michael  Angelo's  workshop  after  his 
death  at  the  age  of  nearly  eighty-nine.  Vasari 
tells  how  day  after  day  the  master  drove  his 
chisel  fiercely  into  the  stone,  seeking  strength, 
as  well  as  relief  from  the  thoughts  that  brood- 
ed over  him.  Here  the  Madonna  is  not  the 
center,  but  the  limp  Christ.  He  hangs  heavily 
on  the  arms  of  his  mother,  with  Mary  Mag- 
dalen coldly  supporting  from  one  side,  while 
Joseph  assists  in  upholding  the  body  from  be- 
hind. "The  man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted 
with  grief" — this  Christ  is  the  one  who  prayed 
that  the  cup  might  pass  from  him.  The  hang- 
ing figure,  with  the  mood  of  seeming  failure 
on  the  worn  face  and  wearied  body,  wrings  our 
heart-strings  with  all  the  weight  of  tragedy 
that  is  human  life. 

The  beginning  and  the  end;  between  the 
two  lies  the  career  of  Michael  Angelo:  the 
dreams  too  vast  for  the  world  about  him  to 
make  attainable;  the  succession  of  artistic 


DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  ARTIST        113 

tragedies ;  the  plan  of  a  tomb  for  Julius  Sec- 
ond that  should  outrival  the  temples  of  an- 
tiquity, the  year  long  labor  in  the  mountains 
to  bring  out  the  marble,  the  Pope  changing 
his  mind,  his  successors  indifferent,  the  few 
scattered  statues  and  the  shrunken  echo  in  St. 
Peter's  in  Chains,  the  only  issue.  Another 
pope,  interested  in  Florence,  sends  Michael 
Angelo  into  the  papal  quarries  to  bring  mar- 
ble for  the  facade  of  San  Lorenzo.  Months 
of  quarrying  and  road-building 'follow;  while 
a  marble  block  on  the  square  before  San  Lo- 
renzo and  a  few  others  beside  the  sea  are  the 
only  evidence  of  the  gigantic  labors,  and  San 
Lorenzo  remains  without  its  facade  to-day. 
Then  the  days  of  building  fortifications  to  pro- 
tect Florence  from  Medicean  enemies,  with 
nights  of  "working  stealthily"  at  the  figures 
to  adorn  the  Medicean  tombs:  it  is  all  here — 
the  whole  life-history  of  Michael  Angelo — in 
those  two  masterpieces  that  bound  his  creative 
life. 


"At  a  distance  we  only  hear  of  the  first  artists,  and 
then  we  are  often  contented  with  names  only;  but  when  we 
draw  nearer  to  this  starry  sky,  and  the  luminaries  of  the 
second  and  third  magnitude  also  begin  to  twinkle,  each  one 
coming  forward  and  occupying  his  proper  place  in  the  whole 
constellation,  then  the  world  becomes  wide,  and  art  becomes 
rich." — Goethe,  Travels  in  Italy,  p.  36. 

"Art  has  to  leave  reality,  it  has  to  raise  itself  boldly  above 
necessity  and  neediness;  for  art  is  the  daughter  of  freedom, 
and  it  requires  its  prescriptions  and  rules  to  be  furnished  by 
the  necessity  of  spirits  and  not  by  that  of  matter.  But  in  our 
day  it  is  necessity,  neediness,  that  prevails,  and  bends  a  de- 
graded humanity  under  its  iron  yoke.  Utility  is  the  great 
idol  of  the  time,  to  which  all  powers  do  homage  and  all  sub- 
jects are  subservient.  In  this  great  balance  of  utility,  the 
spiritual  service  of  art  has  no  weight,  and,  deprived  of  all 
encouragement,  it  vanishes  from  the  noisy  Vanity  Fair  of  our 
time.  The  very  spirit  of  philosophical  inquiry  itself  robs  the 
imagination  of  one  promise  after  another,  and  the  frontiers 
of  art  are  narrowed,  in  proportion  as  the  limits  of  science  are 
enlarged." — Schiller,  Essays  ^Esthetical  and  Philosophical,  pp. 
27,  28. 


114 


CHAPTER    VI 

DEFINING  FORCES   BEHIND  ART:    THE 
EPOCH 

WE  have  seen  how  art  and  the  per- 
sonality of  the  artist  explain  each 
other  in  the  changing  aspects  of  a 
man's  development^  That  personality,  how- 
ever, which  is  always  a  molding  force  behind 
art,  is  itself  in  part  the  expression  of  still 
deeper  causes.  Every  artist  is  in  some  meas- 
ure always  the  embodiment  of  an  epoch,  of 
that  Zeitgeist  or  time  spirit  that  tends  to  ex- 
press itself  in  every  aspect  of  his  character  and 
attitude. 

The  spirit  of  the  epoch  is,  it  is  true,  a  com- 
plex of  many  forces.  Nature  and  life  know 
nothing  of  our  dates  and  periods.  History  is 
a  ceaselessly  onflowing  stream,  with  ebb  and 
flow  in  its  tides,  but  with  nothing  of  that  sharp 
demarcation  of  period  from  period  that  we 
have  made.  We  put  signposts  into  the  long 
road  of  the  past,  saying,  for  example,  "Go  to, 

115 


116  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

let  us  regard  the  crowning  epoch  of  the  renais- 
sance as  dating  from  1450  to  1525."  As  a 
matter  of  fact  the  forces  molding  it  began 
under  the  surface  afar  back  in  the  middle  ages, 
and  are  still  active  to-day.  Such  divisions  are 
always  to  some  extent  arbitrary;  yet  it  is  wise 
to  make  them,  since  they  help  us  to  understand 
the  past  and  the  great  movements  which  are 
undoubtedly  present  in  it. 

That  we  may  legitimately  mark  off  epochs 
is  due  first  of  all  to  that  law  of  rhythm,  which 
Spencer  holds  as  applying  not  only  to  all  life, 
but  to  the  inorganic  world — to  the  formation 
of  a  crystal  and  the  development  of  a  solar 
system;  and  which  certainly  is  evident  in  all 
the  growth  of  man  whether  as  individual  or 
race.  Movements  of  action  and  reaction,  of 
growth  and  incubation,  everywhere  succeed 
each  other.  Every  force,  moreover,  has  a  life- 
history,  not  unlike  that  of  a  man.  It  is  born, 
it  grows  through  youth  to  maturity,  it  declines, 
and  may  utterly  die  out.  Thus  the  life-history 
of  the  dominant  forces  determines  the  rise  and 
decline  of  the  epoch  which  they  characterize. 

These  primal  causes  are  further  complicated 
by  the  changes  occurring  within  the  life  of  a 


THE  EPOCH  117 

people  and  the  streams  of  foreign  influence 
entering  it  from  without.  Consider  how  the 
Wars  of  the  Roses  in  England,  or  the  religious 
wars  in  Germany,  following  the  reformation, 
affected  the  lives  of  those  peoples  and  deter- 
mined the  characteristics  of  certain  epochs. 
Note,  further,  how  the  period  at  the  close  of 
the  eighteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  in  France  was  determined  by 
the  terrible  explosion  of  pent-up  forces  in  the 
revolution.  As  examples  of  foreign  influence 
in  molding  a  period,  consider  the  effect  of 
Greece  upon  Italy  in  the  renaissance,  of  Italy 
upon  England  in  the  Elizabethan  age,  and  of 
French  political  idealism  and  German  litera- 
ture and  philosophy  upon  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury in  England  and  America. 

From  the  combination  of  these  varied  forces 
results  the  time-spirit.  With  reference  to  art 
there  are  two  main  types  of  epoch  that  should 
be  recognized.  There  are  periods  when  the 
energies  of  life  are  creative  and  productive,  and 
periods  when  they  are  quiescent.  Thus  the 
contrasting  types  are:  epochs  of  preBaratioR 
and  of  production,  of  doubt  andjPaitl^ofjcriti- 
and  creation,  A.S  it  is  much  easier  to 


118  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

believe  during  an  epoch  of  faith  than  in  one  of 
doubt,  so  it  is  easier  to  produce  in  a  time  of 
creation  than  in  one  of  criticism.  No  artist 
ever  escapes  the  influence  of  the  time-spirit. 
Even  when  he  reacts  against  it,  he  shows  that 
it  is  there,  and  proves  its  influence  by  his 
protest. 

Thus  an  artist  may  sustain  either  of  two 
contrasting  relations  to  his  age.  He  may  ex- 
press it  positively  or  negatively,  by  embodying 
the  dominant  forces  of  the  time  or  strongly 
reacting  against  them.  Thus  the  spirituality 
of  Emerson's  philosophy  is  accentuated  by  his 
reaction  upon  the  dominant  materialism  of 
American  life.  So  the  very  sensuousness  of 
the  Italy  of  Fra  Angelico  shows  by  opposition 
in  the  exalted  spiritual  quality  of  his  paintings. 
On  the  other  hand,  Leonardo  da  Vinci  em- 
bodies affirmatively  all  that  was  most  signifi- 
cant in  the  renaissance;  he  is  strong  where  it 
was  strong,  limited  just  where  its  strength 
ceases.  So  Dante  represents  the  middle  age,  or 
Goethe,  the  spirit  of  modern  culture.  Michael 
Angelo,  like  Leonardo,  embodies  many  of  the 
dominant  characteristics  of  the  renaissance; 
but,  in  contrast  to  Leonardo,  he  is  in  profound 


THE  EPOCH  119 

reaction  against  other  tendencies,  towering 
above  his  epoch,  reaching  back  into  the  middle 
age  and  protesting  with  Dantesque  earnestness 
against  certain  tendencies  of  the  world  about 
him. 

Thus  there  may  be  any  combination  of  posi- 
tive and  negative  elements  in  the  relation  of 
artist  to  epoch;  but  always  the  influence  of 
the  age  is  present.  Other  things  being  equal, 
the  artist  naturally  can  rise  to  a  greater 
achievement  when  he  is  in  positive  harmony 
with  the  great  forces  of  his  age,  especially  if 
it  is  a  broadly  creative  time;  but,  by  expres- 
sion or  protest,  the  influence  of  the  epoch  is 
always  evident  in  his  work.  As  Emerson  sug- 
gests, it  is  as  if  the  hand  of  the  artist  were 
clutched  by  a  gigantic  hand  which  drives  the 
pen  across  the  page,  the  brush  over  the  canvas 
or  the  chisel  into  the  marble.* 

*  "No  man  can  quite  exclude  the  element  of  Necessity  from 
his  labor.  No  man  can  quite  emancipate  himself  from  his 
age  and  country,  or  produce  a  model  in  which  the  education, 
the  religion,  the  politics,  usages  and  arts  of  his  time  shall 
have  no  share.  Though  he  were  never  so  original,  never  so 
wilful  and  fantastic,  he  cannot  wipe  out  of  his  work  every 
trace  of  the  thoughts  amidst  which  it  grew.  The  very  avoid- 
ance betrays  the  usage  he  avoids.  Above  his  will  and  out 
of  his  sight  he  is  necessitated  by  the  air  he  breathes  and  the 
idea  on  which  he  and  his  contemporaries  live  and  toil,  to 


120  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Even  when  the  artist  is  quite  unconscious  of 
revealing  the  epoch  he  does  so  none  the  less. 
The  sculptors  of  the  gigantic,  earth-bound, 
statues  of  Egypt,  with  the  conventional  feat- 
ures and  unseparated  limbs,  did  not  know  that 
they  were  expressing  the  millenniums  of  Egyp- 
tian tyranny;  but  they  were.  The  Greek  ar- 
tists who  carved  those  calm  human  gods,  with 
living  forms  and  features,  vast  size  replaced  by 
the  greater  impressiveness  of  truth  to  nature 
and  to  the  ideal,  were  unaware  that  their  works 
revealed  the  intense  individualism  and  fine  hu- 
manity of  the  Greek  spirit;  but  we  read  the 
revelation.  The  Elizabethan  dramatists  did 
not  think  of  their  plays  as  expressing  the  new, 
fresh  interest  in  human  life,  the  adventurous 
spirit,  the  enthusiastic  response  to  every  phase 
of  manhood  and  womanhood ;  but  we  find  these 
characteristics  of  the  age  in  all  their  produc- 
tions. 

With  our  own  epoch  it  is  more  difficult  to 


share  the  manner  of  his  times,  without  knowing  what  that 
manner  is.  Now  that  which  is  inevitable  in  the  work  has  a 
higher  charm  than  individual  talent  can  ever  give,  inasmuch 
as  the  artist's  pen  or  chisel  seems  to  have  been  held  and 
guided  by  a  gigantic  hand  to  inscribe  a  line  in  the  history 
of  the  human  race," — Emerson,  Essay  (M  Ar{. 


THE  EPOCH  121 

see  the  expressions  of  the  time-spirit,  because 
we  are  within  it;  yet  here,  too,  certain  big 
tendencies  can  be  perceived.  For  instance, 
in  all  our  painting  are  two  predominant  mo- 
tives. The  major  one  is  humanity.  We  have 
discovered  the  dignity  and  romance  of  com- 
mon life,  and  we  share  increasingly  in  the  so- 
cial idealism  that  is  the  hope  of  our  age.  Thus 
the  dominant  motive  in  our  sculpture  and 
painting  is  the  portrayal  of  common  life. 
Two  worn  peasants  shivering  together  in  the 
cold;  the  sailor  on  the  sinking  boat;  the  hum- 
ble father  in  shirt-sleeves  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  looking  pensively  across  at  the  vacant 
chair,  while  his  children  eat  merrily  about 
him,  unconscious  of  their  loss  and  his  grief; 
the  mother,  fallen  asleep  at  the  task  of  peel- 
ing potatoes,  her  baby  looking  wonderingly 
up  into  the  death-still  face;  the  shepherd  in 
tattered  cloak  and  wooden  shoes,  the  look  of 
dumb  hunger  in  his  face,  returning  at  even- 
ing with  his  flock,  with  the  wide  expanse  of  the 
desolate  moorland  stretching  away:  these  are 
the  subjects  of  the  statues  and  paintings  that 
fill  the  modern  galleries;  before  which  people 
stand  and  to  which  they  return,  unconsciously 


122  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

responding  to  the  perhaps  unconscious  ex- 
pression of  the  modern  spirit. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  minor  motive  in  our 
painting  is  the  representation  of  Nature  in 
landscape  work.  From  the  rush  and  intense 
action  of  our  lives  we  turn  to  the  peace  and 
beauty  of  Nature  and  find  relief  on  her 
breast;  and  landscape  painting  springs  into 
being  in  answer  to  this  need  of  our  age. 

As  the  art  is  molded  and  explained  by 
the  epoch,  so  the  epoch  in  turn  is  interpreted 
by  the  art.  Thus  it  is  possible,  as  with  the 
individual,  to  trace  the  life-history  of  the  age 
through  the  art  embodying  its  different 
phases.  Since  every  productive  epoch  tends 
to  pass  through  the  life-history  of  a  person, 
its  progress  may  be  represented  by  some 
modification  of  a  half-circle.  The  rise  may 
be  rapid  and  the  decline  slow  and  long  con- 
tinued, or  the  rise  may  be  slow  and  irregu- 
lar and  the  drop  sudden;  but  some  modifi- 
cation of  a  half-circle  will  chart  every  period 
of  art  in  the  history  of  the  world. 

The  interesting  point  is  that  the  men  on 
the  rising  slope  are  nearer  to  the  vital  inspi- 
rations of  the  age,  their  art  is  significant  in 


THE  EPOCH  123 

content,  they  have  much  to  say,  but  are  as 
yet  imperfectly  masters  of  the  vehicle  of 
expression.  The  men  on  the  declining  slope, 
on  the  contrary,  are  further  and  further  from 
the  great  forces  of  the  epoch,  they  have  less 
and  less  to  say,  but  show  increasing  mastery 
of  form  in  refinement  and  beauty,  until  the 
end  comes  in  over-refinement  and  academic 
formalism,  with  significance  gone.  Thus  the 
first  half  of  a  creative  epoch  is  character- 
istically "romantic,"  with  a  less  restrained 
outpouring  of  emotion  and  imagination;  the 
second  half  is  dominantly  "classical,"  with  in- 
creasing obedience  to  the  established  rules 
and  conventions  of  expression.  Normally, 
just  at  the  top  can  there  be  the  perfect  bal- 
ance between  content  and  form,  significance 
and  beauty;  and  there  are  found  the  great 
masters,  the  Shakespeares  and  Leonardos  in 
all  epochs  of  art. 

For  example,  in  the  early  Elizabethan  age 
we  have  the  vigorous  outpouring  of  thought 
and  emotion  with  imperfect  dramatic  form, 
the  unrestrained  horrors  of  the  tragedies  of 
blood  and  the  extravagances  of  Euphuism, 
rising  to  the  splendid  power  of  Marlowe  with 


124  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

his  "mighty  line."  On  the  declining  slope 
we  find  the  feminine  delicacy  of  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  the  academic  formalism  of  the 
late  masters,  passing  over  into  the  vacuous 
amenities  of  the  singers  at  the  court  of 
Charles  I,  who  wrote  charming  lyrics  in 
praise  of  their  mistress's  eyebrow  or  the  mole 
on  the  back  of  her  neck — past  masters  in  the 
art  of  saying  nothing  exquisitely.  Just  at 
the  top  is  Shakespeare,  his  working  life  cen- 
tering almost  exactly  at  the  middle  of  the 
half-circle  that  charts  the  age.  He  was  born 
just  right,  so  that  his  genius  could  reach  full 
expression  as  the  supreme  incarnation  of  the 
age.  Do  not  misunderstand  me:  a  great 
man  will  be  great  in  any  age;  but  if  Shake- 
speare had  been  born  twenty-five  years  earlier 
or  later,  his  work  would  have  been  widely 
different,  and  our  conception  of  Elizabethan 
literature  would  not  be  what  it  is  to-day. 

A  similar  life-history  is  evident  in  Italian 
painting  of  the  great  days.  Beginning  with 
the  deeply  sincere  but  quaintly  faulty  work 
of  those  painters  of  the  dawn,  Cimabue, 
Giotto  and  their  fellows,  rising  through  the 
work  of  painters  of  deep  inspiration  and 


THE  EPOCH  125 

significant  content,  but  still  imperfect  ex- 
pression, such  as  Fra  Angelico,  Fra  Lippo 
Lippi  and  Botticelli,  the  climax  comes  in  the 
balanced  masterpieces  of  the  great  trium- 
virate, Raphael,  Leonardo  and  Michael  An- 
gelo.  Thence  we  descend,  through  the  fault- 
less figures  of  slight  meaning  from  the  gold- 
smith-sculptor, Benvenuto  Cellini,  and  the 
flaming  colors,  with  little  significance,  of  Guido 
Reni,  to  the  sweet  nothings  of  Carlo  Dolci 
and  the  academic  trivialities  that  followed. 

When  a  great  man  is  born  in  an  unfor- 
tunate epoch,  his  work  will  show  the  ham- 
pering influences,  but  true  genius  will  make 
possible  high  achievement  nevertheless.  Mil- 
ton, for  example,  while  not  reaching  the  ab- 
solute height  of  Shakespeare,  rises  far  higher 
above  his  less  creative  age  than  does  Shake- 
speare above  his  Elizabethan  contemporaries. 
So  Michael  Angelo,  maturing  in  the  supreme 
period  of  Italian  art,  but  outliving  two  gen- 
erations of  artists  and  working  far  on  into 
the  period  of  decline,  by  sheer  force  of  char- 
acter and  genius,  continued,  in  the  face  of  lack 
of  adequate  appreciation  and  support,  to  pro- 
duce masterpieces  to  the  end.  Thus  varied  may 


126  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

be  the  relations  of  artists  to  the  epochs  in 
which  they  live  and  work;  but  always  in 
some  form  the  influence  of  the  age  is  stamped 
on  the  artists'  work,  and  always  the  art  in 
some  measure  reveals  the  spirit  of  the  age. 


"The  most  profound  erudition  is  no  more  akin  to  genius 
than  a  collection  of  dried  plants  is  like  Nature,  with  its  con- 
stant flow  of  new  life,  ever  fresh,  ever  young,  ever  changing. 
There  are  no  two  things  more  opposed  than  the  childish 
naivety  of  an  ancient  author  and  the  learning  of  his  com- 
mentator."— Schopenhauer,  The  Art  of  Literature,  p.  52. 

"One  should  hot  study  contemporaries  and  competitors, 
but  the  great  men  of  antiquity,  whose  works  have,  for  cen- 
turies, received  equal  homage  and  consideration.  Indeed,  a 
man  of  really  superior  endowments  will  feel  the  necessity  of 
this,  and  it  is  just  this  need  for  an  intercourse  with  great 
predecessors,  which  is  the  sign  of  a  higher  talent.  Let  us 
study  Moliere,  let  us  study  Shakespeare,  but  above  all  things, 
the  old  Greeks,  and  always  the  Greeks." — Goethe,  Conversa- 
tions with  Eckermann  and  Soret,  p.  236. 

"Ah! — if  you  would  and  could  but  hear  and  see  our  true 
Freischiitz, — you  might  feel  the  anxiety  that  now  oppresses 
me,  in  the  form  of  a  friendly  appreciation  on  your  own  part 
of  the  peculiarity  of  that  spiritual  life,  which  belongs  to  the 
German  nation  as  a  birthright;  you  would  look  kindly  upon 
the  silent  attraction  that  draws  the  German  away  from  the 
life  of  his  large  cities, — wretched  and  clumsily  imitative  of 
foreign  influences,  as  it  is, — and  takes  him  back  to  nature; 
attracts  him  to  the  solitude  of  the  forests,  that  he  may  there 
re-awaken  those  emotions  for  which  your  language  has  not 
even  a  word, — but  which  those  mystic,  clear  tones  of  our 
Weber  explain  to  us  as  thoroughly  as  your  exquisite  decora- 
tions and  enervating  music  must  make  them  lifeless  and  irrec- 
ognizable  for  you." — Wagner,  in  "Der  Freischiitz  in  Paris," 
Art  Life  and  Theories,  pp.  106,  107. 


128 


CHAPTER    VII 

DEFINING   FORCES    BEHIND    ART:     THE 
RACE 

THE  spirit  of  the  age  is  contained,  after 
all,  in  something  larger  than  itself. 
Epochs  are  but  moments  in  the  life 
of  the  race.  There  is  a  deep,  organic  basis 
in  the  life  of  a  people  which,  once  estab- 
lished, shows  in  its  every  expression.  We 
have  seen  how  a  racial  character  is  gradually 
developed  under  the  joint  influence  of  en- 
vironment and  the  actions  of  men.  The  type, 
once  evolved,  is  perpetuated  by  both  direct 
and  social  heredity,  with  progressive  modi- 
fications as  time  goes  on.  Thus,  as  the  epoch 
is  behind  the  individual  artist,  so  the  race  is 
beneath  the  epoch  as  the  deeper  and  more 
abiding  cause,  molding  every  phase  of  the 
art  produced. 

Compare  again  the  two  lyrics  studied  from 
Tennyson    and    Browning   in    Chapter    IV. 

129 


130  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

We  saw  how  strikingly  the  two  poems  con- 
trasted in  both  thought  and  art,  thus  reveal- 
ing impressively  the  differences  in  character 
and  experience  between  the  two  men.  Both 
poems  are,  however,  introspective  personal 
confessions,  alike  showing  the  modern  interest 
in  the  spiritual  life ;  while,  further,  both  contain 
the  deep  English  seriousness  in  facing  the 
problems  of  life  and  death,  the  Anglo-Saxon 
gravity  in  the  presence  of  the  moral  mys- 
teries of  life.  Thus  in  both,  in  spite  of  the 
wide  contrast  between  them,  is  the  expression 
of  the  common  characteristics  of  the  age  and 
the  race  to  which  the  two  artists  alike  be- 
longed. 

Every  expression  in  art  is  thus  in  some 
measure  revelatory  of  the  race  and  to  be 
explained  in  part  by  the  race.  Compare,  for 
example,  the  Dutch  and  Italian  schools  of 
painting.  There  was  some  cross  influence 
between  them,  particularly  of  the  Italian 
upon  the  Dutch;  yet  who  could  ever  mis- 
take a  work  of  the  northern  school  for  one 
of  the  south?  The  Dutch  character  is  as 
clearly  expressed  in  the  soft  and  somber 
brown  tones  of  their  paintings  as  in  the 


THE  RACE  131 

prosaic  treatment  of  religious  subjects  or 
the  whimsical  studies  of  common  life;  while 
the  sensuous  wealth  of  flaming  color  in  Ital- 
ian art  is  as  characteristic  as  the  reach  of 
religious  mysticism. 

How  impressively  the  religious  conviction 
of  the  Mohammedans  finds  expression  in  the 
absence  of  sculpture  and  figure  painting,  and 
in  the  invention  and  complication  of  ara- 
besque adornment  in  their  vast  mosques. 
Compare  such  Semitic  art  with  the  living 
sculpture  of  the  Nature-worshiping  Greeks, 
and  the  fundamental  opposition  of  the  two 
great  races  is  evident. 

Greek  words  are  usually  musical,  Anglo- 
Saxon  harsh,  and  the  different  genius  of  the 
two  peoples  is  expressed  even  in  the  bony 
structure  of  the  language.  The  Greeks  could 
say: 

((TIapa  Olva 


The  best  we  can  do  is  "along  the  shore  of  the 
many-sounding  sea";  and  then  we  depend  for 
the  most  musical  word  upon  our  Latin  inheri- 
tance. Lowell  indicated  this  contrast  in  dis- 

*  Iliad,  book  I,  line   34. 


132  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

cussing  the  Latin  and  Anglo-Saxon  elements 
of  our  English,  with  reference  especially  to 
Wordsworth's  theory  and  practice.  He  says: 
"Should  we  translate  the  title  of  Wordsworth's 
famous  Ode,  'Intimations  of  Immortality / 
f Hints  on  DeatUessness'  it  would  have  hissed 
like  an  angry  gander,"  * — as  indeed  it  would. 
In  other  words,  the  musical  quality  in  English 
comes  largely  through  the  Norman  French, 
from  our  classical  inheritance. 

Thus  in  Homer  are  the  long,  carefully 
worked  out  similes  and  the  roll  of  sounding 
hexameters,  while  Beowulf  pours  out  its  wild 
wealth  of  metaphor  with  irregular  rhythm 
and  harsh  alliteration.  Greek  poetry,  as  we 
have  seen,  is  time-measured  almost  as  accu- 
rately as  music,  while  English  poetry  depends 
more  upon  the  melodic  principle  of  accent. 
The  result  is  we  can  scarcely  read  Greek 
poetry  aright,  try  as  we  may;  yet  even  in  our 
reading,  what  liquid  music  there  is  in  such 
stanzas  as  those  of  Sappho's  Ode  to  Aphro- 
dite: 

*  Lowell,  Literary  Essays,  volume  III,  Shakespeare  Once 
More,  p.  13.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1891. 


THE  RACE  183 

((Tlot,Ki,\60pov,  dOdvar  *A(f)p6&iTa, 
al  A/09,  &o\o7r\oKe,  \i<j(To^aL  <r€ 
T?  fji  a<jai<Ti  firjT  ovicuat,  $d/j,va, 


The  limpid  harmony  of  such  a  stanza  is  no 
more  a  tribute  to  the  Lesbian  poetess  than 
to  the  Hellenic  race  from  which  she  sprang. 
Even  the  record  of  a  nation's  crisis  may 
thus  be  recorded  in  the  fabric  of  the  lan- 
guage. For  example,  Dean  Trench,*  quot- 
ing the  jester  in  Ivanhoe,  pointed  out,  early 
in  the  development  of  modern  philology,  that 
in  English  the  names  of  the  domestic  animals 
—cow,  steer,  calf,  ox,  pig,  swine,  sheep  —  are 
all  Anglo-Saxon  in  origin;  while  the  names 
of  the  prepared  meats  —  beef,  pork,  mutton, 
veal  —  are  Norman  French.  Why?  The  an- 
swer is  significant:  when  the  language  was 
in  its  formative  period  the  Anglo-Saxon  mass 
of  conquered  population  took  care  of  the 
domestic  animals,  as  cowherds,  swineherds, 
shepherds;  while  the  Norman  French  con- 
querors ate  the  prepared  meats.  Thus  even 
the  very  stuff  the  art  of  literature  uses  in- 

*  Supply's   Trench  on  Words,  p.  156.    A.  C.  Armstrong  & 
Son,  New  York,  188T. 


134  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

carnates  in  itself  the  life  of  the  race.  How 
much  more,  then,  must  art  express  the  fun- 
damental and  constant  aspects  of  the  race. 
As  with  the  epoch,  the  artist  may  be  quite 
unconscious  that  he  is  embodying  them;  but 
they  are  there,  nevertheless,  as  the  basis  of 
his  own  character  and  thought,  from  which 
he  cannot  escape. 

This  molding/ of  art  by  the  characteristics 
of  the  race  is  so  true  that  one  fine  art  often 
comes  to  represent,  beyond  all  others,  a  par- 
ticular people.  Thus  with  the  Greeks,  sculp- 
ture was  the  characteristic  fine  art,  lending 
its  laws  to  all  other  expressions  of  the  race. 
The  most  limited  of  the  fine  arts,  but  most 
adequate  within  its  limits,  sculpture  exactly 
answered  the  Greek  individualizing  and  form- 
loving  spirit,  and  thus  came  to  regulate  the 
other  arts.  Painting  dealt  chiefly  with  hu- 
man figures  with  little  background.  Archi- 
tecture was  statuesque  in  simplicity,  restraint 
and  harmony.  Greek  tragedy  dealt  with  eth- 
ical types,  rather  than  individuals ;  while  even 
philosophy  obeyed  the  laws  of  sculpture  in 
the  balanced  harmony  of  the  Platonic  dia- 
logue and  Aristotelian  analysis. 


THE  RACE  135 

Italy,  on  the  other  hand,  with  a  warmer 
sensuousness  and  love  of  color,  and  a  wealth 
of  fancy  transfiguring  the  prosaic  detail  of 
life  with  imaginative  illusions,  found  her  rep- 
resentative expression  in  painting.  The 
deep,  vague  dreams  and  emotions  of  more 
somberly  imaginative  Germany  found  a  nat- 
ural voice  in  music;  while  Anglo-Saxon  Eng- 
land, practical  and  utilitarian,  strong  in  moral 
interest  and  responding  to  every  type  of 
character  and  action,  reached  her  highest  ex- 
pression in  art  in  the  drama  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan age,  exhibiting  man  in  action  and 
relation  on  , the  stage  of  time. 

Obviously  these  racial  tendencies  overlap, 
while  every  race  needs  many  expressions. 
Italy  produced  great  sculpture  and  poetry, 
Greece  a  marvelous  drama,  Germany  has  her 
schools  of  painting.  Now  one,  now  another 
art  may  voice  the  same  people;  yet  the  dif- 
ferences of  race  are  sufficiently  strong  fre- 
quently to  make  one  art  definitive  of  a  na- 
tion's life. 

As  with  the  epoch  and  artist,  so  with  the 
race,  it  is  possible  to  trace  the  unfolding 
development  through  the  succession  of  works 


136  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

of  art.  The  life  of  a  race  is  like  an  on- 
flowing  stream,  with  rise  and  fall,  becoming 
deeper  and  more  complex  as  it  flows  on. 
Epochs  are  made  naturally  by  the  rise  and  fall 
of  its  tide,  with  the  influx  of  foreign  waters. 
Let  it  be  emphasized,  however,  that  it  is 
one  stream  that  flows  on,  rising  to  expres- 
sion through  artists  and  epochs.  Thus  that 
which  is  basal  in  the  race  is  present  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end. 

In  all  English  literature,  for  example,  as  in 
all  other  expressions  of  English  genius,  is  a 
common  spirit,  difficult  to  define  because  gen- 
eric, but  everywhere  vaguely  or  clearly  present. 
Perhaps  its  most  characteristic  feature  is  that 
grave  Anglo-Saxon  moral  earnestness  in  the 
presence  of  the  mystery  of  life,  of  which  I 
have  already  spoken.  Taine  quotes  one  of 
its  earliest  recorded  expressions  in  the  speech 
of  one  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  chieftains  gath- 
ered to  listen  to  the  first  Christian  mission- 
aries to  the  island.  After  these  had  spoken, 
the  chieftain  rose  and  said: 

"You  remember,  it  may  be,  O  king,  that  which 
sometimes  happens  in  winter  when  you  are  seated 


THE  RACE  137 

at  table  with  your  earls  and  thanes.  Your  fire  is 
lighted,  and  your  hall  warmed,  and  without  is  rain 
and  snow  and  storm.  Then  comes  a  swallow  flying 
across  the  hall ;  he  enters  by  one  door,  and  leaves  by 
another.  The  brief  moment  while  he  is  within  is 
pleasant  to  him ;  he  feels  not  rain  nor  cheerless  winter 
weather ;  but  the  moment  is  brief — the  bird  flies  away 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  he  passes  from  winter 
to  winter.  Such,  methinks,  is  the  life  of  man  on 
earth,  compared  with  the  uncertain  time  beyond.  It 
appears  for  a  while;  but  what  is  the  time  which 
comes  after — the  time  which  was  before?  We  know 
not.  If,  then,  this  new  doctrine  may  teach  us  some- 
what of  greater  certainty,  it  were  well  that  we  should 
regard  it."  * 

That  is  the  English  view  of  life.  It  is  in 
the  dying  words  of  Beowulf,  the  poem  of 
Langland,  the  sonnets  of  Sidney  and  Spen- 
ser, the  soliloquies  of  Hamlet,  the  essays  of 
Bacon,  as  it  is  in  Tennyson's  Passing  of 
Arthur  and  Browning's  Epilogue  to  Asolan- 
do.  It  is  in  all  these,  and  how  many  other 
expressions  of  the  race,  because  it  is  the 

*  Taine,  History  of  English  Literature,  translated  by  Van 
Laun,  book  I,  chapter  I,  section  VI.  Henry  Holt  &  Co., 
New  York,  1886. 


138 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 


fundamental   spirit   of   the   race   throughout 
its  development. 

Thus  there  are  three  great  definitive  causes 
behind  art — the  race,  the  epoch  and  the  art- 
ist— all  three  finding  expression  in  every  mas- 
terpiece and  uniting  to  mold  its  character- 
istics in  content  and  form.  Of  these  the  most 
fundamental  and  generic  is  the  race;  more 
definite  and  specific,  but  still  molding  broad 
aspects  of  art  is  the  epoch;  while  most  def- 
inite and  clear  in  influencing  every  detail 
of  a  masterpiece  is  the  personality  and  ex- 
perience of  the  artist.  The  more  generic  and 
fundamental  causes  act  behind  and  through 
the  more  specific.  Their  relation  may  be 
represented  as  follows: 

RACE 


THE  RACE  139 

Thus  a  work  of  art  is  like  a  wondrous 
shell  thrown  up  on  tthe  shore  of  Time  by 
the  ocean  of  Humanity.  We  hold  it  to  our 
ear  and  hear,  clear  and  strong,  the  music  of 
the  artist's  life  and  character;  deeper  and 
fainter,  but  still  definite  in  melody,  is  the 
sound  of  the  epoch's  spirit;  while  graver  and 
sonorous,  but  still  more  vague  and  dim,  is 
the  deep  undertone  of  the  race. 


"The  eye,  which  is  called  the  window  of  the  soul,  is  the 
chief  means  whereby  the  understanding  may  most  fully  and 
abundantly  appreciate  the  infinite  works  of  nature;  and  the 
ear  is  the  second  inasmuch  as  it  acquires  its  importance  from 
the  fact  that  it  hears  the  things  which  the  eye  has  seen.  If 
you  historians,  or  poets,  or  mathematicians  had  never  seen 
things  with  your  eyes  you  would  be  ill  able  to  describe  them 
in  your  writings.  And  if  you,  O  poet,  represent  a  story 
by  depicting  it  with  your  pen,  the  painter  with  his  brush  will 
so  render  it  as  to  be  more  easily  satisfying  and  less  tedious 
to  understand.  If  you  call  painting  'dumb  poetry,'  then  the 
painter  may  say  of  the  poet  that  his  art  is  'blind  painting.' 
Consider  then  which  is  the  more  grievous  affliction,  to  be 
blind  or  be  dumb!  Although  the  poet  has  as  wide  a  choice 
of  subjects  as  the  painter,  his  creations  fail  to  afford  as  much 
satisfaction  to  mankind  as  do  paintings,  for  while  poetry  at- 
tempts with  words  to  represent  forms,  actions,  and  scenes, 
the  painter  employs  the  exact  images  of  the  forms  in  order 
to  reproduce  these  forms.  Consider,  then,  which  is  more  fun- 
damental to  man,  the  name  of  man  or  his  image?  The  name 
changes  with  change  of  country;  the  form  is  unchanged  except 
by  death." — Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  Note- 
Books,  arranged  by  Edward  McCurdy,  pp.  156,  157. 

"It  seems  as  though  purely  human  feeling,  grown  stronger 
by  its  very  repression  on  the  side  of  conventional  civilization, 
had  sought  out  a  means  of  bringing  into  use  some  laws  of 
language  peculiar  to  itself,  by  means  of  which  it  could  ex- 
press itself  intelligibly,  freed  from  the  trammels  of  logical 
rules  of  thought.  The  extraordinary  popularity  of  music  in 
our  age,  the  ever-increasing  participation  (extending  through 
all  classes  of  society)  in  the  production  of  music  of  the  deep- 
est character,  the  growing  desire  to  make  of  musical  culture 
a  necessary  part  of  every  education, — all  these  things  which 
are  certainly  obvious  and  undeniable,  distinctly  prove  the  jus- 
tice of  the  assumption  that  a  deep-rooted  and  earnest  need 
of  humanity  finds  expression  in  modern  musical  development; 
and  that  music,  unintelligible  as  its  language  is  when  tried 
by  the  laws  of  logic,  must  bear  within  it  a  more  convincing 
means  of  making  itself  understood,  than  even  those  laws  con- 
tain."—Wagner,  in  "The  Music  of  the  Future,"  Art  Life  and 
Theories,  p.  159. 


140 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE   UNIQUE   FUNCTION   OF   EACH   FINE 
ART 

WE  have  now  come  to  the  heart  of  our 
study — the  effort  to  define  the  spe- 
cific function  of  each  of  the  fine 
arts.  That  each  has  a  distinctive  appeal  is 
evident  merely  in  our  varying  appreciation 
of  them.  With  most  persons,  some  one  art  is 
apt  to  have  a  meaning  beyond  all  the  others, 
thus  indicating  a  harmony  between  the  gifts 
of  the  student  and  the  specific  function 
of  the  art  preferred.  Thus,  also,  it  is  rare  to 
find  an  artist,  practising  one  art,  adequately 
.appreciating  the  others.  This  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  he  sees  his  own  art  from  within, 
thus  realizing  its  power  and  scope;  while  the 
others  he  views  from  without,  and  thus  is  apt 
to  see  their  limitations.  Thus  the  sculptor 
recognizes  the  power  in  his  art  to  appeal 
directly  to  the  vision,  and  through  the  vision 
to  the  mind,  while  he  sees  how  much  less 

141 


142  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

effective  music  or  poetry  must  be  in  the  same 
field.  The  musician,  as  in  Browning's  Abt 
Vogler,  shows  the  miracle  of  his  own  art,  and 
points  the  limitations  of  painting  and  poetry 
in  contrast. 

This  tendency  is  unfortunate,  for  there  is 
nothing  else,  except  experience,  an  artist 
needs  so  much  as  to  saturate  himself  in  the 
material  of  arts  other  than  his  own.  Other- 
wise he  cannot  have  breadth  of  appreciation 
and  the  ever-growing  grasp  of  the  content 
of  the  human  spirit,  necessary  to  great  crea- 
tion in  any  art,  and  is  apt  to  degenerate 
into  the  mere  technician  or  trickster.  Every 
artist  must  be  a  man  first  and  an  artist 
afterward,  to  do  great  work;  and  this  deep 
drinking  from  the  fountain  sources  of  other 
arts  helps  powerfully  to  keep  him  human. 

Similarly  the  student,  even  though  one  art 
appeals  supremely  to  him,  needs  to  respond 
to  them  all  to  attain  balanced  culture  and 
a  full  appreciation  of  the  expression  of  the 
human  spirit.  It  takes  all  the  arts  and  all 
combinations  of  them  to  express  adequately 
the  life  of  man.  Thus  we  need  to  see  as 
clearly  as  possible  the  function  of  each  of 


UNIQUE  FUNCTION  OF  EACH  ART      143 

these  arts  in  relation  to  the  life  of  man,  and 
to  that  end  must  answer  three  questions: 

1.  What  of  the  whole  content  of  the  hu- 
man spirit  finds  expression  in  the  particular 
art? 

2.  How  and  by  what  means  does  the  spe- 
cific art  accomplish  its  end? 

3.  What    are    its    limitations?      In    other 
words,  where  does  it  terminate?    A  limitation 
is  always  the  point  at  which  a  power  ceases. 
Thus  there  is  no  value  in  attempting  to  solve 
the  third  question  until  the  other  two  have 
been  answered.     Negative  criticism  is  never 
of  value  except  after  positive  appreciation. 
These  are  the  questions  we  shall  ask,   and 
attempt  to  answer  as  thoroughly  as  possible, 
in  reference  to  each  of  the  arts  under  con- 
sideration. 

That  each  art  has  a  unique  function  is 
proved  further  by  the  mere  fact  of  its  per- 
manent cultivation  across  the  centuries.  If 
one  art  could  accomplish  more  easily  and  ef- 
fectively all  that  is  done  by  another,  the 
second  art  would  tend  to  disappear,  or  to  be 
cultivated  only  for  the  sake  of  novelty.  In- 
deed, history  has  seen  the  rise  and  practical 


144  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

disappearance  of  certain  arts,  once  dominant 
expressions  of  the  spirit. 

The  art  of  mosaic  work  is  an  admirable 
example;  for  in  the  fifth  and  sixth  centuries 
it  was  the  main  art  in  which  Christian  thought 
found  expression.  Go  to  Ravenna,  stagnant 
among  its  marshes,  and  visit  first  the  tomb — 
first  cruciform  structure  in  the  world,  built 
in  the  second  quarter  of  the  fifth  century — 
of  Galla  Placidia,  that  wonderful  woman, 
daughter  of  one  emperor,  sister  of  another 
and  mother  of  a  third,  who,  after  a  life  of 
wildest  romance,  ruled  the  western  world  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century.  The  little  building  is 
sunk  far  below  the  modern  level  of  the  city. 
You  enter  and  are  taken  into  another  world. 
All  round  about  are  wonderful  mosaics  al- 
most perfectly  preserved,  the  colors  as  warm 
and  true  as  when  they  were  placed  upon  the 
walls.  On  a  background  of  soft,  deep  blue 
—like  some  old  Persian  tapestry — stand  out 
the  stately  figures  of  Christian  story,  like 
Greek  or  Roman  gods.  There,  is  a  young 
Apollo  of^a  Christ  with^the  apostles  as  sheep 
gathered  about  him;  here,  the  grouped  disci- 
ples with  doves  drinking  at  their  feet. 


UNIQUE  FUNCTION  OF  EACH  ART      145 

Go  to  the  old  court  church  of  Theodoric, 
either  side  of  the  noble  basilica  as  well  as  the 
end  wall  covered  with  mosaics  from  the  sixth 
century.  Down  the  long  nave  walls  march 
forever  two  stately  processions  of  Christian 
martyrs  to  their  doom  and  reward.  Above, 
ruder  but  vigorously  expressive  scenes,  of 
Theodoric's  time,  depict  with  childlike  fresh- 
ness various  aspects  of  the  Christian  story.* 

One  finds  the  wealth  of  mosaic  everywhere 
in  Ravenna:  in  San  Vitale,  "beautiful  as  an 
oriental  dream,"  in  the  baptistry  of  the  Ari- 
ans  and  that  of  the  orthodox,  in  the  great 
church  at  the  port  of  Classis — all  warmer  and 
more  permanent  in  color,  graver  and  more 
majestic  in  spirit,  than  are  perhaps  the  deco- 
rations of  any  other  series  of  temples  in  the 
world. 

Why,  then,  has  mosaic  work  sunk  to  the 
position  of  an  art  cultivated  chiefly  for  pur- 
poses of  novelty  and  adornment?  The  reason 
is  that,  excepting  the  greater  permanence  of 
its  colors  (noted  by  Ruskin)  and  the  archaic 
gravity  of  its  religious  impressiveness — de- 
termined by  the  very  limitations  under  which 
the  artist  labors — all  that  mosaic  can  accom- 


146  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

plish,  as  an  expressive  art,  can  be  done  far 
more  easily  and  effectively  by  painting.  To 
represent  a  scene  by  laboriously  piecing  to- 
gether bits  of  cojored  glass  or  stone  is  a 
process  so  painfully  difficult,  as  compared  to 
the  free  work  of  brush  and  colors  on  wall 
or  canvas,  that  mosaic  work  has  inevitably  lost 
the  position  it  once  held  as  an  independent 
and,  indeed,  leading  fine  art. 

Almost  identical  has  been  the  history  of 
true  fresco  painting.  Every  student  of  Ital- 
ian painting  knows  that,  from  the  beginning 
of  the  great  epoch  through  the  major  por- 
tion of  it,  the  masters  did  much  of  their  best 
work  in  true  fresco,  which  meant  putting  the 
colors  on  the  wall  while  the  plaster  was  wet. 
They  did,  it  is  _ true,  at  times  retouch,  "a 
secco" — in  dry;  but  they  disliked  to  use  this 
device  because  the  colors  were  less  permanent 
than  those  put  on  the  wet^wall.  Thus  the 
fresco  painter  submitted  to  severe  limitations, 
and  what  he  accomplished  within  them  fills 
us  with  amazement.  By  studying  the  lines 
in  the  plaster  we  are  able  to  discover  how 
much  he  achieved  in  a  day.  There  are  spaces 
of  wall,  six  by  four  or  more  feet,  painted  in  a 


UNIQUE  FUNCTION  OF  EACH  ART      147 

single  day  by  such  masters  as  Andrea  del  Sarto 
and  Michael  Angelo,  and  never  touched  again. 
Marvelous  genius,  but  what  a  forbidding  situa- 
tion! The  modern  master  is  disinclined  to 
submit  to  it.  He  would  rather  paint  on 
canvas,  among  the  conveniences  of  his  studio, 
where  the  lights  can  be  arranged  as  he  chooses 
and  where  he  can  work  at  his  leisure,  retouch- 
ing as  he  pleases,  and  then  have  the  finished 
work  attached  to  the  wall  it  is  to  decorate. 
Thus  made,  it  can,  moreover,  be  easily  re- 
moved if  the  building  is  altered  or  torn  down, 
and  the  greater  permanence  of  the  work  is 
thus  assured.  If  the  artist  does  paint  directly 
upon  the  wall,  he  is  apt  to  choose  one  of  the 
various  methods  of  painting,  at  greater  leisure, 
on  the  dry  plaster.  True  fresco  painting  has 
thus  tended  to  disappear  as  an  independent 
fine  art,  since  practically  all  that  it  accom- 
plished can  be  done  more  easily  and  effectively 
by  .other  methods. 

In  contrast  to  these  arts,  Sculpture,  Paint- 
ing, Music  and  Poetry  last.  They  have  been 
cultivated  across  all  these  long  centuries,  and 
promise  to  endure  while  man  cares  for  beauty. 
The  position  they  respectively  hold  may  vary 


148  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

widely.  Certain  of  them  do  not  occupy  to- 
day the  place  once  held  as  dominant  expres- 
sions of  some  past  civilization.  Nevertheless, 
they  all  are  evidently  permanently  necessary 
to  the  complete  expression  of  the  human 
spirit.  This  fact  alone  proves  that  each  of 
them  has  some  distinctive  function,  not  ful- 
filled by  any  other  art^  in  this  task  of  ex- 
pressing and  interpreting  the  common  basis 
of  human  life;  and  what  that  specific  func- 
tion is,  in  each  instance,  it  is  now  our  task 
to  discover. 


"It  is  neither  charm  nor  is  it  dignity  which  speaks  from 
the  glorious  face  of  the  Juno  Ludovici;  it  is  neither  of  these, 
for  it  is  both  at  once.  While  the  female  god  challenges  our 
veneration,  the  godlike  woman  at  the  same  time  kindles  our 
love.  But  while  in  ecstacy  we  give  ourselves  up  to  the  heav- 
enly beauty,  the  heavenly  self-repose  awes  us  back.  The  whole 
form  rests  and  dwells  in  itself — a  fully  complete  creation  in 
itself — and  as  if  she  were  out  of  space,  without  advance  or 
resistance;  it  shows  no  force  contending  with  force,  no  open- 
ing through  which  time  could  break  in.  Irresistibly  carried 
away  and  attracted  by  her  womanly  charm,  kept  off  at  a  dis- 
tance by  her  godly  dignity,  we  also  find  ourselves  at  length 
in  the  state  of  the  greatest  repose,  and  the  result  is  a  wonder- 
ful impression,  for  which  the  understanding  has  no  idea  and 
language  no  name." — Schiller,  Essays  Msthetical  and  Philo- 
sophical, p.  72. 

"As  practising  myself  the  art  of  sculpture  no  less  than 
that  of  painting,  and  doing  both  the  one  and  the  other  in  the 
same  degree,  it  seems  to  me  that  without  suspicion  of  unfair- 
ness I  may  venture  to  give  an  opinion  as  to  which  of  the 
two  is  the  more  intellectual,  and  of  the  greater  difficulty  and 
perfection.  In  the  first  place  sculpture  is  dependent  on  cer- 
tain lights,  namely  those  irom  above,  while  a  picture  carries 
everywhere  with  it  its  own  light  and  shade;  light  and  shade 
therefore  are  essential  to  sculpture.  In  this  respect  the  sculp- 
tor is  aided  by  the  nature  of  the  relief  which  produces  these 
of  its  own  accord,  but  the  painter  artificially  creates  them  by 
his  art  in  places  where  nature  would  normally  do  the  like. 
The  sculptor  cannot  render  the  difference  in  the  varying  na- 
tures of  the  colors  of  objects;  painting  does  not  fail  to  do 
so  in  any  particular.  The  lines  of  perspective  of  sculptors 
do  not  seem  in  any  way  true;  those  of  painters  may  appear 
to  extend  a  hundred  miles  beyond  the  work  itself." — Leonardo 
da  Vinci,  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  Note-Books,  arranged  by  Ed- 
ward McCurdy,  pp.  160,  161. 


150 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE   MEANING   AND   FUNCTION  OF 
SCULPTURE 

WE  shall  take  sculpture  first,  in  the 
effort  to  show  the  function  of  each 
of  the  arts,  because  it  is  the  most 
severely  limited  of  them  all,  and  therefore  most 
satisfying  within  its  limits.     Let  us  study  a 
few  characteristic  works,  choosing  well-known 
and    almost    hackneyed    examples,    that    the 
reader  may   easily  call  them  up  before  his 
own  imagination,  and  ask  what  they  do  to 
him  and  how  they  accomplish  their  end. 

Let  us  take  first  one  of  the  best-known 
and  most  widely  copied  of  all  statues — the 
Venus_de  Milo.  When  you  make  your  way 
down  the  long  corridor  of  the  Louvre  to  the 
small  room  at.  the  end,  an<J  stand  for  the 
first  time  before  the  Venus  de  Milo,,  seen 
against  the  dark  hangings  of  the  room,  your 
initial  impression  is  one  of  sensuous  pleasure 

151 


152  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

in  the  beauty  of  the  forms  before  you,  en- 
hanced by  the  mellow  color  of  the  millennium- 
old  marble.  The  harmony  of  the  lines  of  the 
figure,  the  noble  pose,  the  poise  of  the  small 
head  upon  the  curved  neck,  the  beauty  of 
the  face,  the  soft  color  of  the  stone — all  unite  in 
creating  an  impression  of  sensuous  joy.  Let 
me  say  here,  this  sensuous  pleasure  is  enough. 
It  justifies  the  work,  and  is  in  itself  worth 
while,  if  we  go  no  further.  We  do  not  stop 
here,  however.  Through  the  vision  of  the 
forms,  is  borne  in  upon  the  mind  the  con- 
ception of  noble  womanhood.  The  Venus  de 
Milo  is  not  a  woman,  but  woman — not  the 
copy  of  a  particular  woman,  but  what  all 
Greek  women  aspired  to  be.  ..  Balanced,  har- 
monious, nothing  too  much — not  too  much 
physical  development,  not  too  much  mental 
or  spiritual  development,  every  element  in 
harmonious  relation  to  all  others — the  Venus 
de  Milo  is  divine  because  she  is  so  perfectly 
human. 

Beyond  the  sensuous  pleasure  and  the  defi- 
nite conception,  the  student  experiences  a 
deeper  aesthetic  joy  in  the  perfect  harmony 
between  idea  and  execution.  The  way  the 


THE  MEANING  OF  SCULPTURE          153 

conception  flows  forth  into  the  living  stone, 
the  perfect  marriage  of  thought  with  form, 
gives  a  pleasure  deeper  than  sensuous,  of  the 
mind  and  spirit. 

The  conception  of  womanhood  is  given 
through  forms  copied  directly  from  nature. 
There  is  a  satisfying  reality  in  them.  You 
can  go  about  the  statue,  or  turn  it  upon  its 
base;  from  every  point  of  view  there  is  the 
same  satisfaction  from  the  complete  realiza- 
tion of  form  for  the  physical  vision.  These 
forms,  moreover,  are  represented  together 
in  a  single  moment  of  time.  The  sculptor, 
presenting  forms  in  space  relation,  is  always 
limited  to  the  representation  of  one  moment; 
and  the  pose,  here  wisely  chosen,  is  not  over- 
strained, so  that  the  eye  rests  in  it  without 
distress. 

The  forms  are  not  merely  copied  from  na- 
ture, however,  but  are  exalted  in  the  imita- 
tion. This  is  the  face  and  body  of  every 
woman,  and  yet  of  no  woman.  It  is  every- 
where in  the  world,  yet  lifted  above  life  with 
an  element  of  idealism. 

So  far  we  can  all  go  together.  The  sensu- 
ous pleasure,  the  definite  conception,  the  ass- 


154  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

thetic  joy  are  universal,  being  given  for  all 
appreciative  beholders,  through  forms  copied 
and  idealized  from  nature,  and  presented 
with  complete  realization  in  a  single  moment 
of  time.  What  of  the  deeper  emotions  we 
experience  in  the  presence  of  this  statue? 
Ah,  here  we  are  on  debatable  ground.  The 
answer  must  be  purely  personal.  It  is  true 
that,  beyond  the  sensuous  and  aesthetic  joy, 
the  calm  dignity  of  the  statue,  with  the  appeal 
of  the  soft,  mellow  color  of  the  marble,  may 
tend  to  inspire  a  generic  mood  in  the  be- 
holder; but  aside  from  this,  one's  emotions 
depend  upon  what  one  brings^  I  can  but 
state  my  own,  recognizing  that  they  are 
wholly  personal.  Each  time  I  have  stood 
before  the  Venus  de  Milo  I  have  experienced 
a  certain  joyous  exultation  that  men  did  once 
rise  to  this  conception  of  glorious  woman- 
hood and  were  able  to  embody  it,  if  only  in 
the  form  of  ideal  art*  Then,  as  my  thought 
has  gone  back  to  the  old  Greek  world,  I  have 
felt  an  almost  sad  hunger  for  its  sunny  youth, 
its  adequate  realization  of  ideals,  attainable 
because  limited,  in  striking  contrast  to  the 
feverish  restlessness  of  our  deeper  life.  I 


THE  MEANING  OF  SCULPTURE          155 

must  recognize,  however,  that  these  feelings 
result  from  my  own  convictions  and  experi- 
ence, and  that  others  may  see  the  statue  with 
equal  sincerity  and  quite  different  emotions. 
I  know  thoughtful  persons  who  have  con- 
fessed to  a  feeling  of  mere  repugnance  in  the 
presence  of  the  statue,  caused  by  the  different 
proportions  of  the  figure  from  the  type  of 
woman's  body  conventionally  admired  to-day. 
In  other  words,  the  same  conception,  given 
in  the  statue,  carried  a  different  range  of 
emotions,  depending  upon  the  taste,  belief 
and  associations  they  brought  to  it.  Is  it  not 
clear,  then,  that  in  this  work  of  sculpture  the 
sensuous  appeal,  the  conception  and  the  ses- 
thetic  pleasure  are  given,  and,  in  proportion 
to  the  measure  of  appreciation,  are  the  same 
for  all;  while  the  emotional  response  is 
brought  by  the  beholder  and  associated  with 
the  conception,  depending  upon  his  character, 
experience  and  training? 

Near  the  center  of  the  long  corridor  dedi- 
cated to  the  Elgin  marbles  in  the  British 
Museum,  reposes  the  group  of  three  god- 
desses, perhaps  the  most  glorious  surviving 
example  of  Phidian  art.  Headless,  muti- 


156  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

lated,  they  are  still  instinct  with  life.  As  a 
scientist,  from  the  bone  of  some  prehistoric 
animal,  can  reconstruct  in  imagination  the 
creature  as  it  was,  so  the  broken  fragment 
of  a  Greek  masterpiece — a  mere  headless 
and  limbless  torso — carries  all  the  mystery 
of  life,  and  the  beholder  can  see  in  imagina- 
tion the  work  as  it  left  the  creator's  hand. 
So  with  these  goddesses.  The  fluid,  yet  set- 
tled drapery  reveals  rather  than  conceals  the 
splendid  limbs.  The  figures  are  strong,  ma- 
jestic, not  showing  the  exaggerated  voluptu- 
ousness of  Michael  Angelo's  female  figures 
on  the  Medicean  tombs,  yet  without  the  femi- 
nine softness  of  the  later  Praxitilean  art,  but 
with  the  grave,  exalted  beauty  fitting  to  the 
gods.  As  always  in  sculpture,  the  work  is 
limited  to  the  representation  of  a  single  mo- 
ment of  time,  yet  the  moment  chosen  has  the 
sense  of  eternity.  They  repose  there  forever, 
calmly  viewing  the  Panathenaic  procession 
as  it  winds  its  eternal  way  up  the  Acropolis 
hill. 

Sculpture  must  plan  for  the  environment  of 
its  figures;  thus  these  forms,  while  completely 
realized,  are  grouped  to  be  seen  from  in  front 


THE  MEANING  OF  SCULPTURE          157 

and  below,  placed  against  the  temple  and 
under  the  radiant  sky.  One  responds  with 
sensuous  joy  to  the  beauty  of  line  and  form, 
the  harmony  of  the  grouping,  the  play  of 
light  and  shadow,  and  the  warm  color  of  the 
stone.  More  deeply,  one  realizes  the  concep- 
tion of  the  three  goddess  types,  grouped  in 
the  dramatic  moment,  with  the  sesthetic  pleas- 
ure in  the  harmony  of  idea  and  execution. 

Beyond  this  satisfaction,  what  does  one 
feel?  Again  the  answer  must  be  personal. 
My  own  first  feeling  was  one  of  sadness  that 
these  marbles  must  be  here  in  the  solemn 
museum,  amid  the  smoke  and  fog  of  London, 
instead  of  on  the  dazzling  temple  crowning 
the  Acropolis  hill,  in  the  transparent  air,  un- 
der the  blue  of  the  sky,  with  the  bluer  sea 
and  still  bluer  islands  beyond.  Then  I  have 
experienced  an  immeasurable  lift  of  the  spirit 
as  I  have  been  carried  back  to  the  great  days 
of  Athens,  to  the  splendid  heroism  of  the 
Persian  wars,  the  memories  of  Marathon  and 
Salamis,  the  rebuilding  of  the  city,  the  glories 
of  the  brief  period  of  Pericles,  when  the  whole 
population  rose  to  a  splendor  of  artistic 
achievement  never  equaled  in  the  history  of 


158  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

the  world.  Finally,  I  have  been  filled  with  a 
kind  of  homesickness  for  that  old  Greek 
world,  where  men  were  glorious  children, 
combining  the  spontaneity  of  youth  with  the 
wisdom  of  maturity,  when  life  was  undis- 
turbed either  by  transcendent  aspirations  or 
the  horror  of  the  abyss  of  sin,  when  limited, 
earthly  ideals  only  were  attempted,  and  real- 
ized in  forms  of  beauty  that  are  the  despair 
of  subsequent  ages.  These  emotions,  how- 
ever, are  not  given  in  the  work  of  art,  but 
depend  upon  one's  own  knowledge  and  asso- 
ciations, and  might  not  be  identical  in  any 
two  students  of  the  same  work. 

It  is  true,  Greek  sculpture  made  greater 
use  of  color  than  is  customary  in  that  art 
to-day.  When  modern  research  forced  us  to 
accept  the  fact  that  the  Greeks,  even  of  the 
great  days,  so  frequently  painted  their  stat- 
ues, we  did  so  with  great  reluctance.  It 
seemed  to  us  impossible  that  a  people  so  artis- 
tically gifted  as  the  Greeks,  should  have 
wished  to  obscure  the  natural  tints  of  the  mar- 
ble with  artificial  coloring.  Perhaps  the 
changed  taste  can  be  explained  in  the  differ- 
ent relation  the  art  of  sculpture  sustains  to 


THE  MEANING  OF  SCULPTURE          159 

our  civilization.  Sculpture  is  by  no  means 
the  dominant  art  of  our  time;  its  position, 
indeed,  is  less  prominent  than  that  of  paint- 
ing. We  turn  to  it  largely  for  the  peace 
that  comes  from  the  complete  representation 
in  form  of  limited  subjects,  especially  of  calm 
and  dignified  types.  In  the  field  of  this  art 
the  past  overshadows  the  present.  We  are 
accustomed  to  viewing  the  old  masterpieces 
in  the  halls  of  museums;  and  the  color  of 
the  marble,  softened  by  the  long  centuries, 
seems  singularly  appropriate  to  the  antiquity 
of  the  work  and  the  flood  of  memories  it 
awakens.  With  us,  therefore,  tinting  a  statue 
seems  often  an  unworthy  striving  for  novelty, 
and  easily  becomes  a  somewhat  decadent  ap- 
peal to  jaded  sensibilities.  With  the  Greeks, 
on  the  other  hand,  sculpture  as  a  dominant 
art  was  the  major  expression  of  civiliza- 
tion. VJMuch  that  we  expect  from  painting, 
the  Greeks  received  from  sculpture,  and  vastly 
more.  Thus  the  brilliantly  painted  statues 
may  have  been  no  less  in  harmony  with  the 
active,  versatile,  dazzling  civilization  about 
them,  than  the  mellow-toned,  mutilated  mar- 
bles are  with  the  subdued  galleries  in  which 


160  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

we  have  placed  them,  and  the  mood  of  escape 
from  our  busy  world  in  which  we  ponder 
them. 

The  element  of  color  has  some  direct  emo- 
tional effect,  but  only  in  a  vague,  generic  way. 
With  the  Greeks,  this  phase  of  emotional 
appeal  in  sculpture  was  somewhat  stronger 
than  with  us.  Still,  it  merely  meant  life 
rather  than  repose,  and  was  wholly  subor- 
dinate to  the  conceptions  definitely  expressed, 
while  the  larger  range  of  emotional  response, 
for  the  ancients  as  with  us,  was  brought  to 
the  work  by  the  observer  and  associated  with 
the  conception  there  given. 

To  realize  this,  stand  before  the  best  of  the 
surviving  representations  of  the  Amazon — 
that  one  from  the  Villa  Mattei,  now  in  the 
Vatican.  This  type  of  womanhood  is  pecul- 
iarly attractive  to  us  to-day.  Without  sacri- 
ficing any  aspect  of  feminine  grace  and  beau- 
ty, the  Amazon  combines  a  dignity  and  inde- 
pendent, self-affirming  strength,  rare  in  the 
ancient  Greek  ideal  of  womanhood,  but  in- 
creasingly strong  in  the  aspiration  of  our 
time. 

The  sensuous  pleasure  in  the  beauty  of  this 


THE  MEANING  OF  SCULPTURE          161 

statue  would  be  even  stronger  for  the  ancients 
than  for  us,  because  of  their  keener  artistic 
sensibilities;  so,  too,  with  the  joy  in  the  satis- 
fying harmony  of  ideal  and  execution.  The 
clear  conception  of  womanhood,  at  once  strong 
and  graceful,  independent  in  character  but 
exquisite  in  beauty,  they  would  perceive  as 
we  do;  but  I  question  whether  many  Greek 
observers  would  share  at  all  the  emotional 
response  of  joyous  satisfaction  that  the  ma- 
jority of  modern  students  would  feel  in  the 
presence  of  the  statue,  because  of  our  aspira- 
tion toward  the  ideal  of  womanhood  revealed 
in  it. 


Let  us  now  cross  the  long  centuries  to  the 
great  period  of  sculpture  that  came  in  Italy, 
and  to  its  climax  in  the  little  chapel  erected 
and  adorned  by  Michael  Angelo  for  the 
Medicean  tombs.  You  make  your  way  out 
from  the  service  in  San  Lorenzo  to  the  severe 
chapel,  planned  in  all  its  grave  lines  by  the 
master,  its  half-light  fitting  the  somber  mar- 
bles it  contains.  On  one  side  is  the  tomb 
of  the  younger  Lorenzo  de'  Medici.  Above 


162  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

is  the  seated  figure  of  the  duke  in  an  atti- 
tude of  sinister  meditation,  named  by  the 
Italians  II  Pensiero.  Below  on  the  tomb 
are  the  recumbent  figures  representing  Twi- 
light and  Dawn.  The  Twilight,  a  masculine 
figure,  left  unfinished,  probably  intentionally, 
broods  in  somber  meditation.  Across  from 
it  is  the  gigantic  feminine  figure  of  the  Dawn, 
to  me  the  most  beautiful  of  all,  almost  every 
detail  of  the  statue  exquisitely  finished,  the 
splendid  voluptuous  limbs  moving  as  if  in  dis- 
tress, on  the  sternly  beautiful  face  a  look  of 
pain,  as  if  in  sorrow  at  wakening  to  the  agony 
of  another  day. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  chapel  is  the 
tomb  of  Giuliano  de'  Medici.  The  seated 
statue  here  represents  action,  as  if  about  to 
spring  to  some  vigorous  deed,  heroic  or  evil. 
Below,  the  two  figures  represent  Day  and 
Night.  Day,  again  an  unfinished  masculine 
form,  Night,  a  wonderfully  executed  feminine 
one.  It  was  this  statue  that  so  moved  the 
contemporaries  of  Michael  Angelo  that  nu- 
merous poems  were  written  regarding  it,  one 
of  them,  by  Strozzi,  beginning  with  the  stanza : 


THE  MEANING  OF  SCULPTURE         163 

"La  Notte,  che  tu  vedi  in  si  dolci  atti 
Dormire,  fu  da  un  Angela  scolpita 
In  questo  sasso;  e,  perche  dorme,  ha  vita; 
Destala,  se  no'l  credi,  e  parleratti."  * 

"This  Night,  whom  thou  seest  slumbering  in  such 
a  sweet  abandon,  was  sculptured  by  an  Angel  in  this 
marble ;  she  is  alive,  although  asleep :  if  thou  wilt  not 
believe  it,  wake  her,  she  will  speak." 

Michael  Angelo  responded  with  the  stanza: 

"Grato  mi  e  il  sonno,  e  piu  1'esser  di  sasso: 
Mentre  che  il  danno  e  la  vergogna  dura, 
Non  veder,  non  sentir  m'  e  gran  ventura; 
Pero  non  mi  destar ;  deh  parla  basso !  " 

"Sweet  is  my  sleep,  but  more  to  be  mere  stone, 
So  long  as  ruin  and  dishonor  reign ; 
To  bear  nought,  to  feel  nought,  is  my  great  gain; 
Then  wake  me  not,  speak  in  an  undertone  !"f 

For  every  beholder  of  these  statues  there  is 
sensuous  pleasure  in  the  beauty  of  form, 
grouping,  light  and  shadow,  and  subdued  color, 

*  Charles  Clement,  Michael  Angelo,  p.  60.  Sampson  Low, 
Marston  &  Co.,  London,  1896. 

t Translated  by  Symonds,  Sonnets  of  Michael  Angelo,  p. 
cix.  Thomas  B.  Mosher,  Portland,  1895. 


164  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

though  perhaps  somewhat  lessened  by  the 
somberness  of  mood  and  conception.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  is  profound  joy  born  of  the 
wonderful  artistic  harmony  between  idea  and 
execution  throughout.  For  each  statue,  one 
moment  is  chosen,  and  the  entirely  definite  con- 
ception of  the  character  portrayed  is  realized 
in  that  moment  of  time.  The  forms,  drawn 
from  life,  are  lifted  and  strengthened  to  an 
impressiveness  just  short  of  exaggeration.  So 
far,  the  appeal  is  universal. 

What  of  our  emotion?  Here  again  all  de- 
pends upon  what  the  student  brings.  Take 
the  last  of  the  statues  described — the  Night; 
it  may  seem  trivial  so  to  express  it,  but  this 
figure  in  profound  sleep  does  not  make  you 
feel  sleepy.  It  is  the  conception  of  night  and 
sleep — of  relief  from  the  bitterness  of  the 
waking  life,  that  is  expressed;  and  it  may 
awaken  and  stimulate,  instead  of  giving  the 
mood  of  sleep.  Let  one  recall  the  poems 
upon  the  statue  with  their  revelation  of  the 
master's  attitude  toward  his  time;  let  one  re- 
member the  old  biographer's  statement  that 
Michael  Angelo  spent  the  days  building  forti- 
fications to  protect  Florence  from  Medicean 


THE  MEANING  OF  SCULPTURE         165 

enemies,  and  the  nights  working  "stealthily" 
upon  these  statues  to  decorate  Medicean 
tombs;  let  one  call  to  mind  all  the  heartache 
and  world-weariness,  the  succession  of  artistic 
tragedies  in  the  life  of  the  master;  and  then 
one  feels,  beneath  the  joy  in  his  wondrous 
achievement,  a  rush  of  profound  human  sym- 
pathy with  his  gloom  and  sadness;  and  the 
mood  in  which  one  leaves  the  chapel  is  akin  to 
that  with  which  one  goes  from  witnessing  some 
great  tragedy,  such  as  Lear  or  (Edipus  the 
King. 


Turn  now  to  the  sculpture  of  our  own  time 
in  its  best  examples — the  work  of  the  French 
school.  There  is  in  Paris  a  characteristically 
modern  statue  of  Joan  of  Arc  by  Chapu. 
The  girl  is  half-sitting,  half-kneeling,  the 
strong  maiden  arms-  stretched  down  and  out 
and  the  hands  clasped  upon  the  knees,  while 
in  the  face,  with  its  grave  brooding  upon  the 
vision,  is  a  look  of  earnest  devotion,  not  only 
to  the  nation  but  to  humanity. 

Imagine  two  Greeks  from  the  days  of  Phi- 
dias and  Pericles  standing  before  this  statue. 


166  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

They  would  receive,  perhaps  even  more  than 
we,  the  sensuous  appeal  of  the  beautiful  forms, 
the  artist's  satisfaction  in  the  adequacy  and 
harmony  of  execution.  They  would  get,  quite 
as  fully,  the  conception  of  earnest  maidenhood 
devoted  to  a  great  cause;  yet  I  question 
whether  their  feelings  in  the  presence  of  this 
statue  would  be  at  all  comparable  to  those  of 
a  modern  observer.  Each  time  I  have  stood 
before  this  work,  after  the  first  flush  of  pleas- 
ure at  its  beauty,  I  have  felt  up  and  down  my 
back  the  peculiar  shiver  one  feels  when,  for  the 
first  time,  one  hears  in  the  distance  the  roar 
of  London,  or  looks  across  the  desolate  Cam- 
pagna,  in  the  evening  hour,  and  sees  in  the 
distance  the  domes  and  towers  of  Rome.  It 
is  the  mood  of  humanity,  the  sense  of  the  dig- 
nity and  tragedy,  comedy  and  romance  of  our 
common  human  life.  This  mood,  however,  de- 
pends upon  one's  response  to  the  social  ideal 
remolding  our  civilization;  and  I  can  imagine 
our  two  Greeks  enjoying  the  statue,  with  no 
share  whatever  in  the  feeling  I  have  described. 
Indeed,  many  moderns  would  be  similarly  un- 
touched. 

So  with  the  multitude  of  modern  works 


THE  MEANING  OF  SCULPTURE         167 

springing  from  the  same  motive  in  the  age: 
The  People  Who  Weep*  The  ColdA  CEdipus 
at  Colonus,\  The  Par  don  \  The  Kiss  of  the 
Grandmother^ — with  them  all,  the  sensuous 
and  aesthetic  appeal  and  the  conception  are  uni- 
versal; the  emotional  association  is  brought  by 
the  beholder,  and  depends  upon  his  character, 
knowledge  and  experience. 

Let  me  give  a  crowning,  if  somewhat  whim- 
sical, illustration  of  the  principle.  In  the 
Leipzig  museum  is  a  tinted  bust  by  Max  Klin- 
ger,  called  Salome.  At  either  side  of  the  base 
of  the  bust  is  a  mask — the  one,  the  face  of  a 
youth  just  beginning  the  career  of  vicious  in- 
dulgence; the  other,  the  blear-eyed,  coarsened 
face  of  a  middle-aged  voluptuary,  who  has 
gone  down  in  the  slough  of  vice.  Between 
them  is  the  Salome  bust.  The  face  is  repul- 
sively fascinating,  the  eyelids  heavy,  the  nos- 
trils expanded  with  sensual  desire,  the  lips 
full,  the  two  sides  of  the  face  unsymrnetrical, 

*J.  Van  Bresbroech. 

fPaul  Roger-Bloche. 

i  Jean   Hugues. 

||  E.  Dubois. 

§  J.  Dampt. 

All  these  are,  or  were  until  recently,  in  the  Luxembourg. 


168  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

subtly  suggesting  the  stigmata  of  degenera- 
tion. It  is  simply  a  remarkable  portrayal  of 
one  of  the  most  dangerous  and  perverse  forms 
the  power  of  darkness  takes  in  our  time. 

For  some  time  a  photograph  of  this  bust 
stood  on  the  desk  in  my  study.  This  curious 
experience  followed:  every  man  friend  who 
entered  the  study  exclaimed  on  seeing  the 
photograph,  "What  is  that?"  "It  is  interest- 
ing," "Tell  us  about  it."  Every  woman  who 
came  in  said,  "What  is  that  terrible  thing?" 
"Put  it  out  of  sight!" 

It  is  not  necessary  to  explain  the  difference 
in  attitude.  The  point  is,  that,  in  reference 
to  a  work  expressing  one  entirely  definite  con- 
ception, the  emotional  response  divided  into 
directly  opposing  types  in  the  two  sexes.  Is  a 
better  illustration  needed  of  the  fact  that  we 
bring  the  emotional  response  to  a  work  of 
sculpture,  and  that  what  that  response  is  de- 
pends upon  us  and  our  experience? 

Let  me  sum  up :  sculpture  can  present  in  any 
statue  or  group  but  one  moment  of  time;  it 
works  in  completely  realized  form,  directly 
copied  from  nature,  but  usually  lifted  above 
nature.  The  appeal  of  color  is  present,  but 


THE  MEANING  OF  SCULPTURE         169 

quite  subordinate.  'Each  work  expresses  a 
definite  conception  or  range  of  conceptions — 
the  same  for  all  who  appreciate.  So,  too,  the 
appeal  of  beauty  in  form  and  color,  in  har- 
mony and  adequacy  of  execution,  is  universal ; 
but  the  emotions  felt  by  the  observer  are 
brought  by  him,  and  depend  upon  his  charac- 
ter, knowledge  and  experience,  thus  varying 
with  each  person. 


"If  you  know  how  to  describe  and  write  down  the  appear- 
ance of  the  forms,  the  painter  can  make  them  so  that  they 
appear  enlivened  with  lights  and  shadows  which  create  the 
very  expression  of  the  faces;  herein  you  cannot  attain  with  the 
pen  where  he  attains  with  the  brush." — Leonardo  da  Vinci, 
Leonardo  da  Vinci's  Note-Books,  arranged  by  Edward  Mc- 
Curdy,  p.  159. 

"If  the  artist,  out  of  ever-varying  nature,  can  only  make 
use  of  a  single  moment,  and  the  painter  especially  can  only 
use  this  moment  from  one  point  of  view,  whilst  their  works 
are  intended  to  stand  the  test  not  only  of  a  passing  glance, 
but  of  long  and  repeated  contemplation,  it  is  clear  that  this 
moment,  and  the  point  from  which  this  moment  is  viewed, 
cannot  be  chosen  with  too  great  a  regard  to  results.  Now 
that  only  is  a  happy  choice  which  allows  the  imagination  free 
scope.  The  longer  we  gaze,  the  more  must  our  imagination 
add;  and  the  more  our  imagination  adds,  the  more  we  must 
believe  we  see.  In  the  whole  course  of  an  emotion  there  is  no 
moment  which  possesses  this  advantage  so  little  as  its  highest 
stage.  There  is  nothing  beyond  this;  and  the  presentation  of 
extremes  to  the  eye  clips  the  wings  of  fancy,  prevents  her 
from  soaring  beyond  the  impression  of  the  senses,  and  com- 
pels her  to  occupy  herself  with  weaker  images;  further  than 
these  she  ventures  not,  but  shrinks  from  the  visible  fulness  of 
expression  as  her  limit.  Thus,  if  Laokoon  sighs,  the  imagina- 
tion can  hear  him  shriek;  but  if  he  shrieks,  it  can  neither  rise 
a  step  higher  above  nor  descend  a  step  below  this  representa- 
tion, without  seeing  him  in  a  condition  which,  as  it  will  be 
more  endurable,  becomes  less  interesting.  It  either  hears 
him  nrrely  moaning,  or  sees  him  already  dead. 

Furthermore,  this  single  moment  receives  through  art  an 
unchangeable  duration;  therefore  it  must  not  express  any- 
thing, of  which  we  can  think  only  as  transitory.  All  appear- 
ances, to  whose  very  being,  according  to  our  ideas,  it  is  essen- 
tial that  they  suddenly  break  forth  and  as  suddenly  vanish, 
that  they  can  be  what  they  are  but  for  a  moment, — all  such 
appearances,  be  they  pleasing  or  be  they  horrible,  receive, 
through  the  prolongation  which  art  gives  them,  such  an  un- 
natural character,  that  at  every  repeated  glance  the  impres- 
sion they  make  grows  weaker  and  weaker,  and  at  last  fills  us 
with  dislike  or  disgust  of  the  whole  object." — Leasing, 
Laokoon,  pp.  19,  20. 


170 


CHAPTER    X 

THE   MEANING   AND  FUNCTION  OF 
PAINTING 


transition  from  sculpture  to  paint- 
ing is  made  by  easy  steps  through  re- 
lief work;  and  it  is  possible  that  it  may 
have  been  so  made  historically,  thus  giving 
rise  to  painting.  The  reclining  goddesses  of 
the  Parthenon,  if  completely  finished  in  the 
round,  were  planned,  as  we  saw,  to  be  placed 
against  the  temple  and  seen  from  in  front  and 
below.  From  these  to  the  low  relief  of  the 
Parthenon  frieze  is  but  a  step;  and  it  is  only 
another  step  to  the  outlining  and  coloring  of 
figures  on  a  flat  surface,  and  we  have  painting. 
Relief  work,  indeed,  may  pass  over  into  the 
field  that  is  characteristic  of  painting  rather 
than  sculpture.  Take  a  beautiful  example  of 
classic  work  —  the  small  low  relief  of  the 
Nymph  with  the  Infant  Bacchus,  found  in  the 
forum  of  Trajan  and  now  in  the  Lateran  col- 
lection. The  nymph  holds  the  baby  Bacchus 

171 


172  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

on  her  lap,  giving  him  to  drink  of  goat's  milk. 
The  goat  browses  at  her  feet.  A  young  faun 
behind  her  plays  upon  pipes  of  Pan.  Above 
in  the  background  is  a  hill  with  a  tree  upon 
it,  in  which  is  a  nest  of  little  birds.  A  serpent, 
twined  around  the  tree,  threatens  the  young 
birds,  while  the  mother  bird,  fluttering  her 
wings,  attempts  to  frighten  the  serpent  away. 

I  have  described  the  little  work  in  detail  to 
indicate  the  great  complication  of  the  subject- 
matter.  The  forms  are  all  of  sculpture,  but 
the  spirit  is  rather  of  painting.  The  central 
figures  do  not  have  to  be  planned  for  some 
external  environment,  as  in  sculpture,  but  the 
setting  is  fully  given  in  the  work  itself.  A 
wide  range  of  objects,  which  could  not  be  pre- 
sented together  in  sculpture,  is  here  grouped 
in  such  a  composition  as  painting  employs, 
with  a  considerable  use  of  perspective.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  satisfying  reality  of  sculp- 
ture in  representing  forms  in  the  round,  is  lost, 
and  the  effect  of  the  work  depends  upon  some 
measure  of  artistic  illusion. 

Relief  work  is  carried  to  its  farthest  point 
in  the  last  bronze  doors  made  by  Ghiberti  for 
the  baptistry  of  Florence — doors  that  Michael 


THE  MEANING  OF  PAINTING  173 

Angelo  said  were  worthy  to  be  the  gates  of 
paradise.  Here,  several  scenes  are  represented, 
with  much  use  of  perspective,  in  a  single  panel 
of  the  door.  Such  complication  of  subject- 
matter  goes  beyond  what  should  be  attempted 
in  relief  work,  into  the  field  of  painting.  In- 
deed, the  combination  of  scene  within  scene 
passes  the  limits  that  painting  should  observe, 
and  reminds  one  of  the  quaint  portrayal,  in  the 
work  of  early  Italian  masters,  of  various 
scenes  of  a  story  in  a  single  painting. 

Contrast  with  such  complicated  relief  work 
the  simple  form  of  painting  surviving  from 
ancient  times  in  the  Pompeian  frescoes.  While 
none  of  these  are  masterpieces,  they  are  thor- 
oughly characteristic  of  the  general  type  of 
work  done  by  classic  painters.  Ancient  paint- 
ing never  freed  itself  wholly  from  the  laws  and 
restrictions  of  sculpture;  it  was  characteristi- 
cally sculpture  reduced  to  a  flat  surface.  Thus 
the  Pompeian  frescoes  present  chiefly  human 
figures — here  a  group  of  gods,  there  one  of 
bacchanalian  revelers,  most  common  of  all, 
decorative  rows  of  dancing  cupids.  At  times 
one  gets  the  perspective  of  a  room  or  a  bit  of 
formal  garden,  but  the  background  generally 


174  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

is  slight  indeed.  Thus  in  range  and  compli- 
cation of  subject-matter,  the  reliefs  studied  go 
much  farther  into  the  field  of  painting  than  do 
these  frescoes,  and  generally  as  far  in  use  of 
perspective.  In  color,  however,  these  frescoes 
add  a  new  wealth  of  impression  as  compared 
with  sculpture.  Even  the  painted  statues  of 
antiquity  were  far  less  powerful  in  the  appeal 
of  color  than  these  paintings. 


Let  us  turn  now  to  the  greatest  epoch  of 
painting,  the  period  of  the  renaissance  in 
Italy.  In  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts  at  Ven- 
ice is  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  Tintoretto, 
the  Adam  and  Eve.  It  represents  the  two 
beautiful  nude  figures  seated  in  the  garden, 
at  the  moment  when  Eve  gives  Adam  the 
apple.  In  one  corner,  quaintly  enough,  Tin- 
toretto has  portrayed  two  small  figures  being 
driven  out  of  the  garden  by  the  angel  with 
the  flaming  sword.  Over  the  whole  painting 
is  a  rich,  warm  wealth  of  mellow,  golden  light. 

As  with  sculpture,  painting  is  limited  to  the 
portrayal  of  a  single  moment  of  time.  The 
one  Tintoretto  has  chosen  is  the  critical  in- 


THE  MEANING  OF  PAINTING  175 

stant  of  the  fall  of  man,  which  looks  back  to 
the  creation  and  on  to  the  whole  history  of 
human  life.  In  his  effort  to  tell  more  of  the 
story,  by  painting  the  little  scene  in  the  cor- 
ner, showing  the  first  important  consequence 
of  the  action  portrayed,  Tintoretto,  with  child- 
like whimsicality,  has  transgressed  the  limits 
of  painting. 

The  forms  represented  are  all  taken  from 
life  and  nature,  but  as  in  sculpture  they  are 
lifted  with  an  element  of  idealism.  They  are 
not  given  by  direct  imitation,  however,  but  on 
a  flat  surface  through  the  illusion  of  perspec- 
tive. This  method,  limiting  the  artistic  satis- 
faction in  complete  realization  of  form,  makes 
it  possible  for  the  painter  to  give  the  whole 
environment  of  his  central  figures  and  the 
lighting  over  them. 

The  first  effect  of  the  painting  on  the  be- 
holder is  to  give  direct  sensuous  pleasure, 
through  the  beauty  of  the  bodies,  the  garden, 
the  warm  colors  and  mellow  light.  The  main 
conception  is  definite:  it  is  perhaps  less  Adam 
and  Eve,  than  the  temptress  and  the  man,  uni- 
versally treated*  The  aesthetic  satisfaction  in 
the  harmony  of  idea  and  expression,  and  of  the 


176  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

composition  of  the  elements  in  the  whole  work, 
is  the  same  for  all  who  appreciate.  Will  not 
the  emotion  experienced,  aside  from  the  sensu- 
ous and  aesthetic  response,  depend  here,  as  in 
sculpture,  upon  the  observer,  his  attitude 
toward  the  biblical  story,  his  experience  and 
knowledge  of  the  relations  of  men  and  women? 

A  more  impressive  example  is  given  in  the 
great,  if  marred  and  forbidding,  painting  done 
in  Michael  Angelo's  old  age  on  the  end  wall 
of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  long  after  his  painting 
of  the  ceiling.  Dr.  Harris  spoke  of  this  Last 
Judgment  as  first  giving  him  the  key  to 
Dante's  Divine  Comedy,  since  it  attempts  to 
portray  in  a  single  moment — the  moment 
when  the  final  consequences  of  good  and  evil 
are  evident — what  Dante  works  out  in  the 
whole  of  his  poem.* 

Dantesque,  the  painting  is,  in  somber  gloom. 
The  dead  rise  from  the  earth,  the  saints  fear- 
fully enter  salvation  above,  the  lost  are  con- 
demned, and  the  devils  exult  in  their  prey. 
Above,  in  the  center,  is  the  terrible  Christ,  the 
judge  of  all  the  earth,  athletic,  powerful, 

*W.  T.  Harris,  The  Spiritual  Sense  of  Dante's  Divina 
Commedia,  p.  6.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York,  1889. 


THE  MEANING  OF  PAINTING  177 

threatening  with  uplifted  arm,  under  which 
cowers  his  tender  mother,  as  if  in  pity  for 
her  human  kind. 

How  well  this  painting  illustrates  the  pos- 
sibilities of  the  single  moment  to  which  the 
art  is  always  restricted.  With  all  the  com- 
plication of  figures  and  situation,  it  is  just 
one  instant  that  is  portrayed;  yet,  more  than 
any  other,  it  is  the  moment  that  looks  before 
and  after,  gathering  up  all  the  past  and  in- 
dicating the  eternal  future — the  moment  when 
good  is  forever  affirmed  to  be  life,  and  evil, 
death.  Thus  the  painting  gathers  up  and 
expresses  the  whole  range  of  ethical  and  re- 
ligious conceptions  of  mediaeval  Christianity, 
and  is  a  fitting  conclusion  to  the  majestic  in- 
terpretation of  human  history  unrolled  on  the 
ceiling  of  the  chapel  by  the  same  master  hand. 

Indeed,  the  range  of  conceptions  in  the 
Last  Judgment,  as  of  figures,  is  too  vast,  and 
tends  to  overwhelm  and  confuse  one.  This, 
with  the  marring  effect  of  repainting  and  the 
ruin  of  time,  causes  one  to  find  less  sensuous 
and  aesthetic  pleasure  here  than  in  many  other 
great  paintings.  The  great  conceptions  are 
in  the  work,  however,  and  the  student  who 


178  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

persists  is  rewarded,  not  only  by  a  wealth  of 
thought,  but  by  increasing  satisfaction  in  the 
masterly  expression  of  the  ideas. 

What  does  one  feel  in  the  presence  of  this 
painting?  Is  it  not  evident  that  the  answer 
will  differ  according  to  one's  religious  train- 
ing and  belief?  Is  Michael  Angelo's  theol- 
ogy real  to  you?  If  so,  you  will  experience 
one  range  of  emotions.  If  you  look  upon  that 
theology  as  an  interesting  but  obsolete  his- 
torical phase  of  thought,  then  your  feelings 
will  be  of  widely  different  character.  Are 
you  accustomed  to  pray  to  the  Virgin,  or 
not?  Is  hell  a  reality  to  you,  or  a  figment 
of  the  imagination?  Do  you  believe  in  the 
resurrection  of  the  flesh  and  the  judgment 
day?  Is  it  not  evident  that,  as  you  answer 
these  questions,  your  emotions  in  the  presence 
of  the  painting  will  be  determined? 

So  with  other  elements  of  your  experience: 
are  you  familiar  with  the  middle  age  so  that 
you  have  thought  yourself  sympathetically 
into  its  philosophy  of  life?  Are  you  a  lover 
of  Dante?  Do  you  know  Michael  Angelo's 
relation,  as  prophet  of  the  afternoon  and 
the  sunset,  to  the  masters  who  led  up  to  him? 


THE  MEANING  OF  PAINTING  179 

Are  you  familiar  with  the  story  of  his  early 
life  in  Florence  and  the  influence  of  Savona- 
rola upon  him?  These  elements,  too,  will 
help  to  determine  the  subtle  and  far-reaching 
range  of  emotions  you  experience  before  the 
work  of  art. 


Let  us  turn  now  to  modern  work.  In  the 
Louvre  is  one  of  Corot's  most  beautiful  paint- 
ings, representing  a  forest,  with  a  group  of 
dancing  figures  in  the  foreground,  and  over 
the  whole  that  mystic,  indescribable  atmos- 
phere— a  "light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
land." 

Here  a  definite  phase  of  nature  is  given 
clearly,  with  ideal  beauty,  for  the  imagination. 
Besides  the  sensuous  and  aesthetic  pleasure  in 
the  beauty  of  color  and  light,  the  charm  of 
the  composition,  and  the  harmony  of  expres- 
sion, most  of  us  find  a  restful  peace  in  turn- 
ing from  the  busy  world  about  us  to  the 
calm  of  nature  and  the  idealized  suggestion 
of  human  life.  This  mood,  however,  results 
from  what  we  bring  to  the  painting;  and  I 
can  imagine  our  two  Greeks  speculating  as 


180  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF,  ART 

to  why  the  artist  should  have  cared  to  spend 
so  much  time  representing  that  forest,  with 
its  strange  atmosphere,  and  those  curious  little 
idyllic  figures. 

Since  sculpture  and  painting  are  alike  lim- 
ited to  the  portrayal  of  one  moment,  it  is 
necessary,  as  has  been  suggested,  that  the 
moment  should  be  chosen  so  that  the  atten- 
tion can  rest  in  it  without  strain*  That  is 
one  reason  why  landscape  painting,  portray- 
ing nature  in  repose,  is  so  restful,  while  many 
military  paintings,  which  may  strike  the  eye 
impressively  at  the  first  glance,  seem  theat- 
rical and  distress  the  attention  as  one  studies 
them.  Generally  speaking,  the  bodies  por- 
trayed must  be  in  a  position  that  could  be 
sustained  more  than  an  instant,  in  order  to 
produce  a  satisfying  artistic  effect.  Thus  the 
portrayal  of  vigorous  action  is  especially  dif- 
ficult in  these  arts.  Sometimes  it  is  success- 
fully achieved,  as,  for  example,  in  what  is,  to 
me,  the  greatest  painting  in  the  New  York 
Metropolitan  gallery — Meissonier's  Fried- 
land  1807.  It  portrays,  with  that  marvelous 
fidelity  to  detail  that  marked  Meissonier  be- 
yond all  his  contemporaries,  Napoleon  seated 


THE  MEANING  OF  PAINTING  181 

upon  his  white  horse,  with  his  generals  and 
aides  massed  behind  him,  while  at  full  gallop 
and  shouting  open-mouthed,  the  Imperial 
Guard  sweeps  by.  There  could  scarcely  be 
a  portrayal  of  more  intense  action:  one  can 
almost  hear  the  wild,  irregular  hoof-beats  and 
the  tumultuous  sea  of  cries,  "Vive  I'Empe- 
reur!" ;  yet  the  work  is  one  of  the  few  mili- 
tary paintings  I  could  live  with,  and  I  have 
sat  before  it  for  an  unbroken  hour  at  a  time 
with  no  distress  to  the  attention  and  with 
increasing  exhilaration. 

What  is  the  key  to  the  paradox?  Note 
that  the  moment  chosen,  intense  as  it  is,  is  not 
the  highest  moment  of  the  action.  It  is  the 
one  just  before  the  onrushing  troops  sweep 
by  the  Emperor.  Thus  the  action  would 
reach  its  climax  a  little  later,  and  the  imag- 
ination is  led  on  to  fulfill  it.  This  helps  to 
give  the  peculiar  impression  of  eternity  to 
the  action.  The  guard  seems  forever  sweep- 
ing by.  The  deeper  explanation,  however, 
is  found  in  the  fact  that  the  intense  action 
of  the  onrushing  cavalry  is  so  wonderfully 
balanced  by  the  rock-like  repose  of  the  figure 
of  Napoleon,  with  the  troops  massed  behind 


182  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

him.  He  is  the  center,  not  the  galloping 
Guard.  Silent,  firm,  inscrutable,  sinister, 
sphinx-like  as  if  hewn  from  eternal  stone,  he 
is  the  symbol  of  utter  mastery.  He  absorbs 
profoundly  the  attention,  fascinating  and 
eluding,  in  a  different  mood,  as  completely 
as  a  Cleopatra.  One  cannot  justly  call  this 
a  military  painting.  It  is  a  profound  study 
of  a  leader's  mastery  of  the  mass ;  it  is  merely 
incidental,  though  characteristic  of  history, 
that  this  mastery  is  portrayed  in  the  mili- 
tary field. 

What  intense  sensuous  delight  there  is  in 
the  marvelous  grouping  of  colors,  the  play 
of  light,  the  beauty  of  the  moving  and  stand- 
ing horses,  the  bodies  and  faces  of  the  sol- 
diers, the  shimmer  of  the  very  grass  blades 
before  the  horses'  feet.  How  smitingly  the 
central  conception,  with  all  its  associations, 
is  borne  in  upon  the  mind.  What  vital  aesthetic 
pleasure  is  given  by  the  perfect  mastery  in 
expressing  the  content  of  thought,  and  in  the 
satisfying  harmony  of  the  whole.  What  are 
one's  emotions?  Again  the  answer  must  be 
entirely  personal,  depending  upon  one's  view 
of  the  character  and  career  of  Napoleon, 


THE  MEANING  OF  PAINTING  183 

one's  attitude  toward  militarism  in  the  life  of 
mankind.  My  own  feeling  has  been  one  of 
intense  admiration,  mingled  with  profound 
sadness.  Is  there  a  greater  tragedy  in  his- 
tory, more  cosmic  in  scope,  than  the  career 
of  Napoleon?  What  genius,  what  mastery, 
what  action,  what  glorious  victories;  but  how 
meaningless  the  aim  and  how  futile  the  end 
of  it  all!  A  cataclysm  of  the  nations,  a 
remaking  of  the  map  of  Europe,  and  then 
— all  things  reverting  to  much  what  they  had 
been,  with  a  solitary  prisoner  looking  mourn- 
fully put  from  the  rock  of  St.  Helena  at  the 
setting  sun.  Such  extravagant  expenditure 
of  power,  such  ghastly  waste  of  life,  for — 
nothing!  Is  there  a  greater  illustration  of 
the  fact  that  power  is  always  a  means  and 
never  an  end?  These  moods  and  reflections, 
however,  are  brought  by  the  observer,  and 
are  in  him  rather  than  in  the  painting. 

One  of  the  most  impressive  paintings  in 
the  Luxembourg  is  a  portrayal,  by  Bastien- 
Lepage,  of  two  peasants  resting  at  the  noon 
hour,  entitled  Les  Foins*  The  man  is  stretched 
flat  upon  his  back,  in  the  sleep  of  exhaustion. 
His  body  is  thin  and  ill-fed,  in  worn  clothing, 


184  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

the  trousers  bagging  pathetically  at  the  knees. 
The  woman  beside  him  is  seated  on  the 
ground,  leaning  forward  on  her  abdomen, 
her  legs  stretched  out  before  her,  her  wear- 
ied arms  resting  heavily.  In  her  face  is  the 
look  of  dumb,  half-wakened  hunger  for  she 
knows  not  what,  the  rendering  of  which 
makes  Bastien-Lepage,  with  Millet,  a  prophet 
of  modern  democracy.  Behind  the  two  figures, 
the  dull  field,  in  which  they  have  been  toiling, 
stretches  monotonously  away. 

The  moment  chosen,  while  one  of  repose, 
interprets  the  whole  life  of  these  obscure 
toilers,  representing  such  a  mass  of  man- 
kind. The  forms  are  copied  from  nature, 
in  their  dull  setting,  with  such  faithful  real- 
ism that  the  pleasure  for  the  senses  is  far 
less  than  the  aesthetic  satisfaction  in  the  ade- 
quate expression  of  the  given  theme.  The 
unifying  atmosphere  gives  a  touch  of  idealism 
that  puts  the  whole  in  perspective  for  the 
observer's  mind.  What  of  his  feelings  in  the 
presence  of  the  painting?  I  can  but  give 
mine:  each  time  I  have  stood  before  this  work 
it  has  moved  me  almost  to  tears;  yet  I  recall 
an  art-loving  friend  standing  beside  me  and 


THE  MEANING  OF  PAINTING  185 

saying,  "Why  do  you  suppose  he  chose  to  paint 
a  subject  so  lacking  in  beauty?"  The  point  is 
that  one's  emotional  reaction  depends  here, 
less  upon  the  painting,  than  upon  one's  rela- 
tion to  the  larger  aspirations  of  democracy 
in  our  time,  and  upon  one's  experience,  or 
the  lack  of  it,  in  poverty  and  toil. 

To  sum  up:  in  sculpture  and  painting 
alike  a  definite  conception  or  range  of  con- 
ceptions, real  or  ideal,  is  given.  The  con- 
ceptions are  expressed  in  definite  forms,  imi- 
tated and  idealized  from  nature,  and  grouped 
in  space  relations.  In  both  arts  the  single 
work  is  limited  to  the  representation  of  one 
moment  of  time,  and  a  story  can  be  inter- 
preted only  by  choosing  a  moment  that  looks 
before  and  after,  and  is  significant  of  the 
whole.  In  both,  the  moment  chosen  must  be 
one  in  which  the  attention  can  rest,  and  if 
the  action  portrayed  is  too  violent  and  tran- 
sitory, the  mind  is  usually  distressed  and  the 
permanent  effect  of  the  work  marred.  In 
both,  the  forms  are  statical  and  can  be  re- 
turned to  again  and  again.  In  both,  color  is 
used,  but  always  in  sculpture  and  usually  in 
painting,  subordinated  to  the  more  masculine 


186  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

element  of  form.  Both  give  direct  sensuous 
and  aesthetic  pleasure;  but  in  both  alike,  the 
range  of  deeper  emotions  is  brought  by  the 
observer  and  associated  with  the  conceptions 
given  in  the  work,  being  dependent  upon  the 
character,  knowledge  and  experience  of  the 
beholder  rather  than  upon  the  work  itself. 

The  differences  between  the  two  arts  are 
deeply  significant,  but  still,  less  important 
than  these  fundamental  likenesses.  Sculpture, 
emphasizing  more  strongly  the  masculine  ele- 
ment of  form,  realizing  it  completely  in  the 
round,  is  far  more  limited  in  scope  than 
painting,  but  the  most  adequate  and  satisfying 
of  the  arts  within  those  limits.  Painting,  less 
realistic  and  complete  in  directly  imitating 
forms  as  they  are  in  life,  working  upon  a  flat 
surface  and  depending  upon  the  illusions  of 
perspective,  is  immeasurably  broadened,  as 
compared  with  sculpture,  in  the  range  and 
complication  of  its  subject-matter,  while  it 
makes  far  greater  use  of  the  relatively  fem- 
inine, but  sensuously  and  in  some  measure 
emotionally  appealing  element  of  color. 
Sculpture,  moreover,  must  plan  its  creations 
for  an  external  environment,  whether  it  be 


THE  MEANING  OF  PAINTING  187 

the  niche  and  wall  of  a  temple,  or  the  light 
and  shadows  of  the  open  air.  Painting  may 
give  in  the  work  itself  the  whole  surrounding 
of  its  central  subject,  with  the  play  of  light 
and  shadow  and  the  unifying  atmosphere  over 
the  whole. 


"How,  ye  formal  philosophers,  ye  men  of  the  'sounding 
arabesque,'  unto  whom  the  spirit  shows  itself  not,  because 
ye  do  not  believe  in  it,  or  search  after  it  in  the  organic 
structure  with  the  gross  scalpel  of  the  anatomist— know  ye 
not  that  Goethe's  'disengaging  one's  self  from  a  mood,'  which 
he  found  in  poetry,  also  applies  to  the  musician — that  every 
truly  artistic  tone-work  is  also  an  'occasional  poem'?  Surely, 
no  musical  thought  has  ever  been  generated  with  vital  power  in 
your  soul,  or,  if  you  had  one,  it  was  a  greenhouse  plant. 
Otherwise  you  would  know,  that  the  artist  hastens  with  every- 
thing that  delights  and  pains  him  to  his  beloved  art,  and  de- 
sires of  it  that  it  should  preserve  each  mood  for  him  in  the 
sacred  vessel  of  its  beautiful  form  for  all  time." — Ambros, 
The  Boundaries  of  Music  and  Poetry.,  p.  106. 

"The  more  definitely  a  composer  aims  at  making  his  music 
an  expression  of  emotion,  the  more  firmly  must  he  fashion  it 
according  to  the  dictates  of  intellect,  for  were  he  to  attempt 
emotional  expression  without  preserving  the  supremacy  of  the 
reason  in  his  work,  he  would  speedily  fall  into  formlessness, 
and  instead  of  enlightening  would  merely  bewilder  his  hearers. 
In  all  art  creative,  or  interpretative,  the  emotion  must  be 
under  the  dominance  of  the  reason,  or  else  there  is  no 
method,  and  art  without  method  is  inconceivable." — Henderson, 
What  is  Good  Music,  p.  98. 

"It  must  be  in  music,  that  language  intelligible  to  all  men, 
that  the  great  equalizing  power  is  to  be  found,  which,  con- 
verting the  language  of  ideas  into  the  language  of  the  feelings, 
would  bring  the  deepest  secrets  of  the  artistic  conception  to 
general  comprehension,  especially  if  this  comprehension  can 
be  made  distinct  through  the  plastic  expression  of  dramatic 
representation,— -can  be  given  such  a  distinctness  as  up  to  this 
time  painting  alone  has  been  able  to  claim  as  its  peculiar  in- 
fluence."— Wagner,  in  "The  Music  of  the  Future,"  Art  Life 
and  Theories,  p.  141. 


188 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE   MEANING  AND   FUNCTION   OF 
MUSIC 

OF  all  the  fine  arts,  music  is  the  most 
difficult  to  define  for  the  intellect,  be- 
cause it  is  the  most  subtle,  seeming  to 
produce  its  effects  as  by  a  miracle.     Indeed, 
that   a   mere   succession   of   ordered    sounds, 
varying  in  pitch,  loudness  and  quality,  should 
do  to  the  human  spirit  what  music  accom- 
plishes, must  always  remain  a  marvel. 

On  the  threshold  we  meet  a  perplexing 
paradox.  In  one  aspect  music  is  primitive 
and  universal;  in  another,  it  is  connected  with 
the  latest  and  most  refined  civilization.  Cer- 
tain forms  of  music  go  back  to  the  earliest 
times  and  are  everywhere  appreciated;  yet 
the  major  development  of  the  art  has  come 
within  the  last  three  hundred  years.  There 
is  scarcely  a  savage  tribe  without  some  form 
of  music;  young  children  respond  involun- 
tarily to  certain  musical  appeals ;  yet  the  full 

189 


190  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

appreciation  of  much  of  modern  music  de- 
mands special  gifts  or  a  high  measure  of  cul- 
tivation. Thus  there  is  this  initial  puzzle  in 
the  relation  of  music  to  life.  Something  in 
music  is  evidently  simple  and  universal ;  some- 
thing in  it  answers  the  need  of  highly  devel- 
oped refinement  and  civilization. 

Perhaps  we  can  throw  light  on  the  difficulty 
if  we  compare  the  response  of  different  per- 
sons to  the  various  elements  of  which  music 
is  composed.  One  responds  mainly  to  rhythm, 
another  to  rhythm  and  melody,  a  third  to 
both  these  and  also  to  harmony.  Thus  there 
are  three  distinct  elements  in  music,  forming 
a  progression  away  from  simplicity  and  uni- 
versality toward  cultivated  intelligence.  The 
first  and  most  universal  of  these  is  rhythm. 
This  principle  is  everywhere.  It  is  connected, 
as  has  often  been  shown,  with  the  respiration 
of  the  breath,  the  beating  of  the  heart  and 
the  circulation  of  the  blood.  Thus  the  re- 
sponse to  it  is  universal  and  instinctive.  There 
are  few  human  beings,  young  or  old,  culti- 
vated or  ignorant,  who  are  not  stimulated  to 
some  physical  movement  in  harmony  with 
such  a  rhythmic  appeal  as  that  of  a  brass  band 


THE  MEANING  OF  MUSIC  Ipl 

playing  a  lively  marching  tune.  Cultivation 
seems  in  fact  to  have  little  to  do  with  this 
response  to  pure  rhythm;  it  may  even  be 
stronger  in  the  primitive  and  ignorant  than 
in  the  intellectual  and  refined. 

Melody  is  a  more  complex  principle,  sub- 
suming rhythm  under  itself.  Melody  depends 
upon  the  pitch,  accent  and  quality  of  tone, 
and  is  an  ordered  succession  of  sounds  ap- 
pealing as  unified  and  beautiful  to  the  sense 
of  hearing.  It  may  indeed  be  called  the  soul 
of  music.*  Melody  is  also  a  widely  appealing 
element  in  music,  yet  only  the  simplest  melo- 
dies are  universal,  while  the  more  complicated 
demand  some  measure  of  musical  aptitude 
or  cultivation  for  their  full  appreciation. 
Many  persons  instinctively  and  vigorously 
respond  to  rhythm  who  cannot  "carry '  a 
tune,"  arid  require  cultivation  to  respond 
fully  to  melody. 

*"Let  us  establish  first  of  all  the  fact  that  the  one  true 
form  of  music  is  melody;  that  without  melody  music  is  in- 
conceivable, and  that  music  and  melody  are  inseparable.  That 
a  piece  of  music  has  no  melody,  can  therefore  only  mean 
that  the  musician  has  not  attained  to  the  real  formation  of 
an  effective  form,  that  can  have  a  decisive  influence  upon 
the  feelings;  which  simply  shows  the  absence  of  talent  in  the 
composer." — Wagner,  in  "The  Music  of  the  Future,"  Art  Life 
and  Theories,  p.  175. 


192  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Harmony  is  the  element  of  music  latest  in 
development,  furthest  from  universal  in  ap- 
peal, demanding  far  more  musical  trainii: 
for  its  appreciation.  Note  that  in  our  <v 
cussion  of  music  "harmony"  is  used  in  ti 
technical  sense.  In  the  general  usage,  ha^ 
mony  means  symmetry — the  agreement  of 
elements  of  a  composition,  or  of  form  and 
content,  and  is  thus  a  universal  principle  of 
all  the  arts;  but  in  music,  harmony  has  a 
technical  meaning  as  the  consonance  or  con- 
cord of  sounds  occurring  simultaneously  or 
in  quick  succession.  This  is  the  principle,  the 
development  and  progressive  application  of 
which  is  the  glory  of  the  musical  art  during 
the  last  three  hundred  years,  expanding  im- 
measurably the  scope  of  music  and  giving  it 
the  place  it  holds  as  a  leading  art  of  civiliza- 
tion. High  intellectual  and  aesthetic  cultiva- 
tion is  needed  for  the  full  appreciation  of  this 
element  of  music  in  its  more  complicated 
forms.  Thus  varied  is  the  relation  of  the 
three  great  elements  of  music — rhythm,  mel- 
ody and  harmony — to  human  sensibility  and 
intelligence. 

All   art   must   draw   its   forms   ultimately 


THE  MEANING  OF  MUSIC  193 

from  nature,  and  to  this  law,  music  is  no 
exception;  yet  the  relation  it  sustains  to  na- 
ture is  widely  different  from  that  of  sculp- 
ture and  painting.  The  latter  arts  depend, 
as  we  have  seen,  upon  the  direct  imitation  of 
forms  given  in  nature.  No  matter  how 
great  the  element  of  idealization  in  the  Venus 
de  Milo,  or  the  figures  upon  the  Medicean 
tombs,  these  are,  nevertheless,  human  bodies 
and  faces  copied  directly  from  life.  So  a 
Titian  painting  with  its  transfiguring  golden 
light,  or  a  Corot  landscape  with  its  idyllic 
mood  and  subtle  atmosphere,  after  all,  directly 
imitates,  even  though  it  idealizes  the  forest,  the 
air  and  the  clouds. 

In  music,  alsa,  every  sound  used  is  found 
somewhere  in  nature;  it  is  difficult  to  im- 
agine a  sound  not  so  given.  There  are,  more- 
over, sounds  which  form  a  kind  of  natural 
music.  Take  the  best  of  examples — the  sigh- 
ing of  the  wind  through  the  pine  forest. 
Who  is  irresponsive  to  that  irregular  rising 
and  falling  spheric  melody,  the  wind  wakens 
from  the  multitudinous  pine-needles  when, 
on  a  warm  summer  day,  one  lies  upon  the 
ground  under  the  singing  boughs.  All  the 


194  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

elements  of  music  are  present  here.  There  is 
irregular  rhythm  with  the  rise  and  fall  of  the 
sound.  A  peculiar  natural  melody  comes  as 
the  wind  freshens  and  lessens.  Even  the 
element  of  harmony  is  in  some  measure  in- 
volved, as  the  countless  needles  blend  their 
slight  tones  in  the  billowy  waves  of  sound. 

It  is  difficult  to  abstract  the  impression  of 
this  natural  music  from  the  associated  ap- 
peals through  other  senses.  The  play  of  light 
and  shadow,  the  somberness  of  the  boughs, 
the  aromatic  fragrance>  the  feeling  of  the  bed 
of  pine  needles — all  blend  in  one  impression; 
and  indeed  it  is,  as  we  shall  see,  this  fusing 
of  many  elements  appealing  through  different 
senses,  that  gives  the  beauty  of  nature  its 
wondrous  charm. 

Let  us  try,  however,  to  isolate  the  impres- 
sion of  the  music.  There  is  direct  sensuous 
pleasure  given.  Deeper  than  this,  the  music 
puts  the  hearer  into  a  definite  type  of  mood, 
which  may  perhaps  be  described  as  one  of 
calm,  exalted  joy.  The  train  of  reflection 
accompanying  this  mood  will,  however,  vary 
with  every  hearer. 

Next  to  the  pine  music,  the  most  impress- 


THE  MEANING  OF  MUSIC  195 

ive  form  of  natural  music  is  the  beating  of 
the  surf  upon  the  sand  or  rocks  of  the  shore. 
Here,  also,  the  impressions  through  the  sense 
of  sight  complicate  and  make  difficult  the 
abstraction  of  the  effect  of  sound.  More, 
however,  than  in  the  music  of  the  pines,  the  ele- 
ment of  rhythm  is  here,  strongly  and  regularly 
accentuated.  The  melody  is  also  more  defi- 
nite, if  less  moving,  than  in  the  other  in- 
stance. Harmony,  in  some  degree,  is  present 
in  the  union  of  sounds  made  by  the  wash  of 
the  long  rolling  waves  on  the  irregular  con- 
tour of  the  shore.  Thus  here,  too,  something 
of  all  these  elements  of  the  art  of  music  is 
present. 

Every  lover  of  the  sea  will  recognize  at 
once  the  direct  sensuous  pleasure  given  by  the 
sound  of  the  surf.  It  tends,  too,  to  produce 
one  of  several  moods,  influenced  by  the  spirit 
in  which  we  come.  There  is  something  pecul- 
iarly soothing,  indeed  almost  benumbing,  to 
the  tired  or  grieving  spirit  in  this  music,  and 
thus  we  tend  to  pass  into  a  general  mood  of 
subdued  meditation.  What  do  we  think 
about?  Ah,  to  that  question  only  a  personal 
answer  can  be  given.  The  emotional  state  is 


196  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

generic,  the  train  of  reflections  is  associated 
by  the  individual  mind,  and  depends  upon 
what  it  brings. 

Another  form  of  natural  music  which  really 
rises  to  the  plane  of  instinctive  art  is  bird- 
song.  Here  rhythm  is  definitely  used,  and 
the  element  of  simple,  brief  melody  is  highly 
developed.  Technical  harmony  is  absent. 
Perhaps  for  that  very  reason  bird-song  shows 
clearly  the  type  of  sensuous  and  emotional 
appeal  made  by  music.  I  need  not  dwell 
on  the  pure  sensuous  delight  we  have  in  such 
music,  nor  upon  the  fact  that  bird-song  lifts 
us  generally  to  an  emotional  state  of  glad 
joy.  Still,  different  bird  songs  produce 
moods  widely  apart,  as  is  evident  if  one  will 
compare  the  weirdly  somber  feeling  with 
which  one  hears  at  night  the  reiterated  three 
melodic  notes  of  the  whip-poor-will,  with  the 
tender  mood  wakened  by  the  song  of  the 
hermit  thrush.  It  is  a  further  clue  to  the 
nature  of  music  that  bird  songs  spring  from 
specific  states  of  feeling,  as  particularly  that 
of  love-making,  in  the  birds  themselves. 

Finally,  a  high  kind  of  natural  music  is 
evident  in  the  tones  of  the  speaking  voice. 


THE  MEANING  OF  MUSIC  197 

Rhythm  and  melody  are  always  present  in  the 
speech  of  deep  feeling,  with  the  flow,  inflec- 
tions and  modulations  of  the  words;  while 
voices  differ  from  each  other  in  quality  (tim- 
bre) as  much  as  do  musical  instruments. 
One  hears  voices  with  the  moving,  almost  stri- 
dent sonorousness  of  the  violoncello;  others 
that  have  the  clear,  stimulating  call  of  the 
flute;  others  suggest  the  liquid  melting  ten- 
derness of  the  harp.  There  are  voices  which, 
even  speaking  in  a  language  one  does  not  un- 
derstand, have  power  not  only  to  give  keen 
sensuous  pleasure,  but  to  move  one,  by  the 
tones  alone,  to  tenderness  and  almost  to  tears. 
Thus  there  are  many  forms  of  natural  mu- 
sic in  which  are  found  all  the  sound-forms 
the  art  uses;  yet  the  main  business  of  music 
is  not  directly  to  copy  these  sounds,  as  sculp- 
ture and  painting  imitate  the  forms  of  the 
natural  world.  At  times,  it  is  true,  music 
does  this,  as  in  imitating  the  sound  of  falling 
water,  the  rustling  of  the  forest,  or  the  twit- 
tering of  birds.  Beethoven's  Pastoral  Sym- 
phony gives  excellent  examples  of  the  use  of 
such  imitation  in  great  art,  and  others  are 
found  in  Wagner's  Nibelungen  Tetralogy. 


198  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

This  is  but  a  minor  device  in  music,  however, 
and  may  easily  be  carried  too  far.  Then  it  be- 
comes a  mere  trick,  as  in  those  show  pieces, 
such  as  the  Wakening  of  the  Lion  or  the 
Falling  of  the  Waters,  which  graduates  of 
what,  without  intentional  irony,  we  used  to 
call  "finishing  schools,"  played  to  display  their 
skill  on  Commencement  Day  to  admiring 
audiences  of  parents  and  friends. 

Instead  of  imitating  natural  music  as  its 
main  function,  what  the  art  of  music  really 
does  is  to  resolve:  the  sound  forms,  given  in 
nature,  into  their  abstract  elements,  and  then 
deliberately  recombine  these  in  harmony  with 
human  sensibility  and  intelligence.  It  is  thus 
that  we  get  the  scale,  which  is  a  conventionally 
accepted  order  of  intervals  among  these  ab- 
stract sound  forms.  This  is  illustrated  by  the 
fact  that  widely  different  scales  have  been  in 
use  at  times,  as  for  instance,  among  the  Greeks. 
So,  too,  in  Chinese  music  an  order  of  sounds 
is  used  which  is  sensuously  painful  to  western 
ears;  while  our  music  is  said  to  sound  no  less 
discordant  to  the  Chinese,  habituated  to  their 
own  convention. 

Music  thus  differs  widely  from  sculpture 


THE  MEANING  OF  MUSIC  199 

andjpainting  in  being  less  imitative  and  more 
creatively  expressive.  It  is  interesting  that 
architecture,  of  all  the  arts  dealing  with  forms 
in  space-relations,  is  the  one  most  closely  com- 
parable in  method  with  music.  I  can  still 
recall  the  sense  of  elation  in  a  fresh  discovery 
when  I  saw  this  identity  between  the  two 
arts — the  one  dealing  with  spatial,  the  other 
with  time  forms,  the  one  appealing  to  the  sense 
of  sight,  the  other  to  hearing — for  it  was  a  dis- 
covery to  my  own  mind.  Architecture  also 
finds  all  its  forms  ultimately  in  nature.  The 
tree  trunk  gave  the  column,  its  leaves  the  first 
capital ;  the  Roman  arch  goes  back  to  the  cave- 
roof,  the  Gothic,  to  the  aisles  of  a  northern 
forest ;  yet  the  main  function  of  architecture  is 
not  to  copy  these  forms.  It  does  so,  if  at  all, 
only  incidentally.  Its  method  is  to  take  these 
forms  and  reduce  them  to  their  abstract  ele- 
ments of  line  and  proportion,  and  then  to 
recombine  these  in  harmony  with  the  de- 
mands of  the  human  senses  and  intelligence. 
So  in  architecture,  as  in  music,  mathematics 
finds  severe  and  exact  application.  Thus  ar- 
chitecture, though  limited  by  conditions  of 
utility,  accomplishes  in  dealing  with  space- 


200  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

relations  something  similar  to  what  music  ac- 
complishes in  time-relations,  and  the  centuries- 
old  comparison  of  architecture  to  music  is  seen 
to  be  no  extravagant  metaphor,  but  rather 
to  rest  upon  an  illuminating  scientific  basis. 
The  characterization  of  architecture  as  "fro- 
zen music"  goes  back  to  Goethe  and  beyond. 
How  significant  it  is!  Who  can  stand  before 
such  a  temple  as  the  Cathedral  of  Milan, 
with  its  spires  of  aspiration,  its  countless 
adornments,  its  vast  aisles,  gothic  roof,  min- 
gled light,  forest  of  columns  and  great  open 
spaces,  and  not  feel  as  if  a  symphony  of 
Beethoven  had  been  caught  in  an  instant  and 
frozen  into  stone. 

Browning,  with  his  delight  in  giving  a 
fresh  turn  to  an  old  thought,  reverses  the 
comparison,  and  to  him,  in  Abt  Vogler,  music 
is  liquid  architecture,  flowing  forth  into  its 
many-domed,  myriad-spired  temple  of  sound 
as  inevitably  as  the  legendary  palace  of  Solo- 
mon, built  magically  "to  pleasure  the  prin- 
cess he  loved."  The  comparison  either  way  is 
illuminating  because  it  rests  in  a  profound 
truth.  Thus  the  characteristic  difference  in 
appeal  between  the  arts  portraying  statical 


THE  MEANING  OF  MUSIC  201 

forms  in  space,  and  those  dealing  with  dynamic 
forms  in  time,  will  best  appear  if  first  we  com- 
pare architecture  and  music  in  their  respective 
effects. 

Consider  first  the  noblest  temple  the 
Greeks  achieved — the  ruined  glory  of  the 
Parthenon — supreme  symbol  of  Athenian 
greatness  in  the  wonder  of  the  Periclean 
age.  Mutilated  as  it  is  by  the  vandalism 
of  blind  races  and  dark  ages,  it  is  still  alive 
with  the  immortality  the  Greeks  gave  to  all 
they  created.  How  small  it  seems  in  con- 
trast to  the  vast  temples  of  Christian  and 
Oriental  art,  but  how  perfect!  The  simple 
row  of  columns  surrounds  it,  each  planned  to 
rest  the  eye  with  harmony.  The  roof  rests 
easily  upon  these.  In  the  entire  structure  is 
no  mathematically  straight  line.  Instinctively 
or  consciously,  the  Greek  master  gave  the 
slight  or  definite  curve  that  charms  with  ease 
and  beauty.  The  decorations — pediment, 
frieze  and  metope — are  all  planned  in  re- 
strained subordination  to  the  dominant  idea 
inspiring  the  whole. 

The  temple  gives  sensuous  pleasure  with 
its  beauty  of  line,  proportion  and  color,  but 


202  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

through  this  it  gives  the  pure  architectonic 
conception  for  the  intellect  of  man,  with  the 
deep  aesthetic  delight  in  the  adequacy  and 
harmony  with  which  the  idea  is  expressed. 
The  further  emotions  one  experiences  in  its 
presence  depend  upon  its  setting  and  associa- 
tions and  one's  familiarity  with  these,  as  fully 
as  is  true  of  the  marble  groups  in  the  British 
Museum,  ravished  from  its  decorations. 

Turn  to  a  representative  example  of  me- 
diaeval Christian  art  from  the  same  field. 
Notre  Dame  broods  somberly  over  the  surg- 
ing city  of  Paris,  as  it  has  brooded  for  cen- 
turies of  time;  vast,  multiform,  with  its  two 
towers  and  numerous  spires;  the  rose  win- 
dows blending  forms  and  light;  its  countless 
decorations  portraying  scenes  from  Christian 
and  Hebraic  history,  teaching  through  the  eye 
the  religious  story,  blending  the  grotesque 
with  the  somber  and  terrible  in  those  strange 
gargoyles — wild  children  of  the  northern 
imagination,  leering  down  from  eaves  and 
<•  towers. 

Within,  the  wealth  of  stately  columns 
stretches  bewilderingly  away,  the  Gothic 
arches  multiplying  the  impression  of  space  in 


THE  MEANING  OF  MUSIC  203 

aisles  and  nave,  the  mingled  light  lending 
mystery  and  awe  to  the  whole.  What  a 
masterly  blending  it  is  of  a  bewildering  mul- 
titude of  forms,  fused  through  the  unity  of 
appreciation  in  the  spirit  creating  them  all. 

Sensuous  and  artistic  pleasure — in  what 
full  measure  they  are  given!  Deeper,  a 
wealth  of  conceptions,  not  united  in  one  ar-J 
chitectonic  idea  as  in  the  Greek,  but  asso- 
ciated and  blent  through  the  unity  of  the 
human  spirit,  is  expressed  for  the  beholder. 
A  somewhat  definite  mood  is  also  awakened 
by  the  temple,  its  setting  and  associations; 
but  the  deeper  range  of  emotions  experienced 
in  its  presence  must  vary  with  the  individual 
and  depend  upon  what  he  brings  as  com- 
pletely as  with  painting  and  sculpture. 

To  make  clear  the  effect  of  music  we  must, 
of  course,  exclude  for  the  present,  song,  which 
is  a  composite  art  uniting  poetry  with  music 
in  a  new  appeal.  Let  us  take  as  a  first  ex- 
ample in  music,  a  relatively  slight  composi- 
tion such  as  Schumann's  Arabesque  (opus 
18)  or  Chopin's  Impromptu  (opus  29). 
Each  of  the  titles  is  suggestive:  the  "Im- 
promptu" is  a  brief  expression  of  a  mood 


204  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

and  spontaneous  musical  conception;  the 
"Arabesque"  calls  up  at  once  those  cognate 
delicate  traceries  in  the  adornment  of  Mo- 
hammedan architecture.  Each  of  these  brief 
compositions  is  made  of  a  series  of  sound 
forms,  differing  in  length,  pitch  and  loudness, 
and  arranged  by  the  principles  of  rhythm, 
melody  and  harmony.  Please  note  that  the 
series  is  not  made  of  statical  forms,  but  is 
dynamic,  one  form  or  group  of  forms  dying 
as  the  next  is  born,  so  that  the  composition 
must  be  recreated  every  time  it  is  enjoyed. 
Thus  the  striking  contrast  in  method  between 
music  and  the  arts  presenting  forms  in  space 
is  evident. 

The  sounds  and  their  arrangement  give 
direct  sensuous  pleasure,  while  their  order 
and  combination,  beautifully  expressing  a 
musical  concept,  give  aesthetic  satisfaction. 
Further,  all  the  hearers  of  either  of  these 
brief  pieces  would  feel  much  the  same  general 
mood  awakened  by  the  composition,  '  and 
would  even  experience  in  common  the  slight 
succession  of  emotional  states,  corresponding 
to  the  series  of  melodic  forms.  The  train 
of  reflections,  however,  associated  with  the 


THE  MEANING  OF  MUSIC  205 

emotions,  would  be  wholly  individual  and  in 
no  way  determined  or  indicated  by  the  com- 
position. 

Suppose  the  most  appealing  of  Chopin's 
nocturnes  to  be  played  sympathetically  for 
a  roomful  of  listeners.  All  appreciative  hear- 
ers would  experience,  in  different  degrees, 
the  sensuous  and  aesthetic  pleasure  given  by 
the  composition.  All  would  tend  to  ex- 
perience the  same  general  series  of  states 
of  feeling,  being  lifted,  melted  to  tenderness, 
made  to  feel  the  pathos  and  the  pain,  sub- 
dued to  the  solution  at  the  end;  yet  there 
would  be  as  many  different  trains  of  medita- 
tion as  there  were  persons  in  the  room.  You 
would  think  of  the  poem  you  know  and 
which  you  associate  with  the  music;  I  would 
think  perhaps  of  Shelley's  lyric  To  the  Night. 
You  would  meditate  upon  a  phase  of  your 
own  experience,  the  music  recalls  to  you;  I 
would  brood  over  a  chapter  of  my  life,  un- 
known to  you.  In  the  appeal  of  music  the 
series  of  emotional  states  is  given,  the  train 
of  reflections  is  brought  by  the  hearer,  and  is 
dependent  upon  his  character,  knowledge  and 
experience. 


206  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

The  same  truth  holds  with  reference  to  all 
musical  compositions  from  the  least  to  the 
greatest.  Consider  such  a  world-masterpiece 
as  the  Ninth  Symphony  of  Beethoven,  worthy 
to  rank  with  Hamlet,  the  Divine  Comedy,  the 
Ceiling  of  the  Sistine  Chapel  and  the  Last 
Supper  of  Leonardo  as  a  supreme  achieve- 
ment of  human  genius.  This  complex  work 
— the  crowning  expression  of  Beethoven's 
mind — presents  a  succession  of  movements, 
differing  each  from  the  others  in  rhythm, 
melody  and  harmony,  and  thus  comparable 
to  a  series  of  works  of  art,  yet  all  strongly 
united  by  common  themes  and  elements  of 
melody  in  one  masterpiece.  Throughout,  the 
work  gives  sensuous  pleasure  through  its 
sound  forms,  and  profound  artistic  joy  in 
the  beauty  and  harmony  with  which  its  basal 
ideas  and  moods  find  expression.  Each 
movement,  moreover,  tends  to  waken  in  the 
hearer  a  dominant  emotional  state,  and  below 
that  a  succession  of  emotions,  rising  to  the 
supreme  exaltation  of  the  concluding  passage. 
The  accompanying  trains  of  reflection  are, 
however,  as  completely  individual  as  in  the 
case  of  the  little  Schumann  Arabesque  first 


THE  MEANING  OF  MUSIC  207 

studied.  Do  not  misunderstand  me:  I  do  not 
mean  that  music  is  "not  intellectual,"  as  is 
often  wrongly  said.  There  is  a  profound 
and  exact  intellectual  basis  in  all  music;  and 
to  the  construction  of  the  Ninth  Symphony 
of  Beethoven  went  surely  as  great  intellectual 
power  as  is  shown  in  the  creation  of  Faust  or 
Macbeth.  I  do  mean  that  music  does  not 
give  a  series  of  definite  ideas  for  the  intellect, 
as  is  .true  of  the  arts  dealing  with  forms  in 
space,  but  that  its  dynamic  series  of  sound- 
forms  tends  to  waken  in  the  hearer  a  some- 
what definite  series  of  emotional  states,  while 
the  associated  ideas  or  meditations  are  unique 
in  each  person. 

The  contrast  with  the  spatial  arts  is  then 
evident.  Sculpture,  painting  and  architecture 
present,  through  statical  forms,  definite  con- 
ceptions for  the  intellect  and  the  imagination, 
while  the  emotions  we  experience  vary  with 
each  individual  and  depend  upon  what  he 
brings.  Music,  on  the  other  hand,  through 
a  dynamic  succession  of  forms  in  time,  tends 
to  arouse  a  common  series  of  emotions,  while 
the  associated  trains  of  reflection  vary  with 
each  person  and  depend  upon  his  knowledge 


208  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

and  experience.  Thus  each  of  these  two  con- 
trasting types  has  the  strength  wanting  in 
the  other,  or  each  makes  emphatic  what  is 
subordinate  in  the  other. 

To  make  it  clear,  compare  the  treatment  of 
the  same  material  in  the  two  contrasting  types 
of  art.  Take  the  Margaret  story  from 
Goethe's  Faust,  as  given  in  Gounod's  music 
and  in  the  numerous  paintings  of  it  by  Ger- 
man artists.  Suppose  you  were  quite  ig- 
norant of  the  Faust  story,  and  heard  the 
orchestral  music  of  Gounod's  opera  with  the 
songs  given  in  a  language  you  did  not  un- 
derstand: what  would  you  get?  You  would 
receive  first  a  large  measure  of  sensuous  and 
artistic  delight.  Beyond  that,  would  be  wak- 
ened in  you,  in  succession,  the  great  emotions 
associated  with  the  story — the  passionate  long- 
ing of  Faust,  the  melting  tenderness  of  Sie- 
bel's  love  song,  the  blind  hunger  of  Margaret 
at  the  spinning-wheel,  her  sorrow  and  de- 
spair— all  these  would  be  given.  These 
moods,  however,  could  be  associated  with  a 
thousand  different  love  stories,  and  your  re- 
flections, in  listening  to  the  music  under  the 


THE  MEANING  OF  MUSIC  209 

conditions  assumed,  would  in  no  way  touch 
Faust  and  Margaret. 

The  painter,  as  we  have  seen,  is  limited  to  a 
single  moment  of  the  story  in  each  work, 
and  can  interpret  the  whole  only  through 
significant  moments.  He  can  paint  Faust 
bargaining  with  Mephistopheles.  He  can 
portray  Margaret  before  the  Cathedral  door, 
in  all  the  blushing  charm  of  her  young  maid- 
enhood, Faust  gazing  upon  her  in  ruthless 
desire,  and  Mephistopheles  with  sinister  sneer 
behind.  He  can  picture  Margaret  at  the 
spinning-wheel,  with  far-dreaming,  tear- 
dimmed  eyes,  and  the  look  of  love-longing 
in  her  face.  He  can  represent  Margaret 
upon  the  straw  of  her  prison,  with  the  wild- 
staring  look  of  remorse  and  madness.  Thus 
he  can  give,  beyond  the  sensuous  and  aesthetic 
pleasure,  clear  conceptions  of  the  characters 
and  situations  for  our  imagination  and  intel- 
lect. What  we  feel,  however,  is  not  neces- 
sarily the  series  of  emotions  aroused  by  Gou- 
nod's music.  Our  feelings  depend  upon  our 
attitude  toward  the  characters  and  the  story, 
upon  what  we  have  lived  and  know  of  love 
and  pain. 


310  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

A  northern  artist  has  painted  two  pictures 
dealing  with  the  Brunhild  story.  One  repre- 
sents the  Valkyr  carrying,  across  her  cloud- 
riding  horse,  a  dead  warrior  to  the  hall  of 
Valhalla.  The  other  pictures  Brunhild  at 
the  moment  of  her  enchanted  imprisonment. 
Odin  imprints  a  kiss  upon  her  brow  as  she 
stands  there — a  symbol  of  woe  and  resolution, 
while  the  flames  spring  up  from  the  ground 
round  about. 

Thus  each  of  these  paintings  represents  a 
single  instant  of  the  story,  the  second  a  pe- 
culiarly interpretative  moment,  which  to  one 
who  knows  the  legend  carries  something  of 
the  whole.  The  concept  of  the  cloud  maiden 
is  definitely  given  with  the  clear  idea  of  the 
situation  of  her  life.  Our  emotions  in  the 
presence  of  these  paintings  depend  upon  our 
knowledge  of  northern  mythology  and  its 
treatment  in  various  arts,  and  upon  our  own 
life  experience.  Compare  with  this  the  mu- 
sic of  Wagner's  Walkure,  without  the  libretto 
and  the  stage  portrayal.  The  pure,  clear 
motif  of  the  Valkyr  maiden  awakens  a  mood 
of  exultant  freedom.  It  is  the  call  of  the 
wilderness  of  untamed  Nature,  of  the  wild 


THE  MEANING  OF  MUSIC  211 

hungers  of  the  strong,  free  life.  With  this 
motive  dominant,  through  what  a  wealth  of 
emotions  the  music  carries  us;  yet  these  could 
be  associated  with  many  other  stories  besides 
that  of  Brunhild,  while  our  thoughts,  as  we 
listen  to  the  music,  depend  upon  what  of  life 
and  knowledge  we  bring. 

Thus  the  strength  of  the  one  type  of  art 
is  the  limitation  of  the  other;  each  makes 
explicit  in  its  appeal  what  the  other  sub- 
ordinates. 


"In  its  ideal  feature  music  keeps  within  its  natural  boun- 
daries, so  long  as  it  does  not  undertake  to  go  beyond  its 
expressional  capacity — that  is,  so  long  as  the  poetical  thought 
of  the  composer  becomes  intelligible  from  the  moods  called 
forth  by  his  work  and  the  train  of  ideas  stimulated  thereby, 
that  is,  from  the  composition  itself,  and  so  long  as  nothing 
foreign,  not  organically  connected  with  the  music  itself,  must 
be  dragged  in,  in  order  to  assist  comprehension." — Ambros, 
The  Boundaries  of  Music  and  Poetry,  pp.  181,  182. 

"That  which  so  strongly  attracted  our  great  poets  towards 
music  was  the  fact  that  it  was  at  the  same  time  the  purest 
form  and  the  most  sensuous  realization  of  that  form.  The 
abstract  arithmetical  number,  the  mathematical  figure,  meets 
us  here  as  a  creation  having  an  irresistible  influence  upon 
the  emotions — that  is,  it  appears  as  melody;  and  this  can  be  as 
unerringly  established,  so  as  to  produce  sensuous  effect,  as  the 
poetic  diction  of  written  language,  on  the  contrary,  is  aban- 
doned to  every  whim  in  the  personal  character  of  the  person 
reciting  it.  What  was  not  practically  possible  for  Shake- 
speare— to  be  himself  the  actor  of  each  one  of  his  roles — is 
practicable  for  the  musical  composer,  and  this  with  great 
definiteness, — since  he  speaks  to  us  directly  through  each  one 
of  the  musicians  who  execute  his  works.  In  this  case  the 
transmigration  of  the  poet's  soul  into  the  body  of  the  per- 
former takes  place  according  to  the  infallible  laws  of  the 
most  positive  technique;  and  the  composer  who  gives  the  cor- 
rect measure  for  a  technically  right  performance  of  his  work, 
becomes  completely  one  with  the  musician  who  performs  it, 
to  an  extent  that  can  at  most  only  be  affirmed  of  the  con- 
structive artist  in  regard  to  a  work  which  he  had  himself 
produced  in  color  or  stone, — if,  indeed,  a  transmigration  of  his 
soul  into  lifeless  matter  is  a  supposable  case." — Wagner,  in 
"The  Purpose  of  the  Opera,"  Art  Lift  and  Theories,  pp. 
226,  227. 


212 


CHAPTER    XII 
MUSIC  AND  THE   SPIRIT 

ONE  aspect  of  distinctly  intellectual  re- 
sponse to  music  lies  in  the  analytical 
study  of  its  compositions.  To  work 
out  the  combination  of  motives  in  a  Wagner 
opera,  or  analyze  the  complicated  harmonies 
of  a  Beethoven  symphony,  is  an  intellectual 
process  which  may  give  delight.  This  process, 
however,  is  comparable  to  the  theoretic  anal- 
ysis of  line  and  proportion  in  architecture,  or 
of  design,  composition  and  color  in  sculpture 
and  painting,  and  is  totally  different  from  the 
direct  response  in  appreciation  to  the  appeal 
of  the  work  of  art.  The  intellectual  pleasure 
in  such  a  process  is,  in  fact,  exactly  the  same 
in  kind  with  that  we  experience  in  working 
a  difficult  problem  in  calculus.  It  is  keen 
pleasure  we  experience,  but  so  different  from 
the  direct  response  to  the  appeal  of  the  art 
that  the  analytical  process  may  even  stand  in 

213 


214  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

the  way  of  the  latter.  This  need  not  be,  for 
rightly  conducted  analytical  study  increases 
the  power  to  appreciate;  but  where  the  anal- 
ysis is  made  an  end  in  itself,  it  may  hamper 
rather  than  help  the  synthetic  response. 

Have  you  ever  heard  some  art  critic  analyze 
the  principles  of  design  in  Leonardo  da  Vinci's 
Last  Supper?.  It  is  an  interesting  process, 
showing  how  the  painting  is  composed  of 
mathematical  triangles,  each  linked  to  the 
next ;  yet  one  may  carry  such  study  so  far  that 
one  sees  the  triangles  and  not  the  painting. 
Similarly,  one  may  carry  the  analysis  of  the 
structure  of  a  Wagner  opera  so  far  that  one 
hears  the  motifs  and  not  the  music.  Such 
study  in  any  art  is  a  valuable  help  to  appre- 
ciation, but  is  always  a  means  and  never  an 
end,  and  should  not  be  confused  with  the  di- 
rect response  to  the  appeal  of  art. 

An  example  came  under  my  own  observa- 
tion, where  a  man  of  fine  talents  and  superior 
education  seemed  to  be  quite  without  "an  ear 
for  music."  Having  every  opportunity  for 
cultivation,  living  for  years  in  the  art  centers 
of  Europe,  associating  constantly  with  musi- 
cal people,  he  came  to  resent  increasingly  the 


MUSIC  AND  THE  SPIRIT  215 

fact  that  they  found  such  joy  in  what  to  him 
was  a  sealed  book.  So  he  set  to  work  to  master 
music.  He  employed  the  best  teachers,  mas- 
tered the  difficult  subject  of  harmony,  advanc- 
ing so  far  that  he  could  analyze  an  opera  or 
symphony  into  its  elements  and  recompose 
them.  He  attended  musical  concerts  and 
greatly  enjoyed  his  processes  of  analysis;  yet 
he  remained  as  deaf  to  music  in  the  true  sense 
as  when  he  began  his  study.  His  case  is  ex- 
ceptional, but  it  illustrates  the  principle  that 
intellectual  understanding  of  the  technique  by ; 
which  a  work  of  art  is  produced,  is  a  totally  dif- 
ferent thing  from  the  appreciation,  spontane- 
ous or  cultivated,  of  the  created  work.  £One 
may  be  quite  ignorant  of  the  principles  of  de- ! 
sign  and  composition,  and  yet  appreciate  a 
painting;  and  one  may  know  nothing  intel- 
lectually of  motifs  and  technical  harmony,  and 
yet  respond  deeply  to  the  appeal  of  music.} 

There  are  various  ways  by  which  a  train  of 
intellectual  associations  may  be  suggested  in 
connection  with  the  direct  musical  appeal.  The 
simplest  of  these,  frequently  employed  by  com- 
posers, is  in  skillfully  naming  a  work.  This 
device  is  legitimate,  and  is  occasionally  used 


216  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

even  by  great  masters,  as  in  Beethoven's  Pas- 
toral Symphony,  which  at  once  suggests  vari- 
ous sounds  and  activities  of  the  Nature  world, 
or  the  Heroic  Symphony.,  in  hearing  which  we 
are  expected  to  reflect  upon  the  career  of  Na- 
poleon. So  Mendelssohn's  Spring  Song  or 
Schumann's  Kinderscenen  suggests  immedi- 
ately a  specific  train  of  reflection.  This  de- 
vice, however,  must  be  used  wisely  and  with 
restraint,  or  it  easily  degenerates  into  a  trick, 
as  in  the  "show  pieces"  referred  to  in  the  pre- 
ceding chapter;  and  the  great  composers  have 
usually  preferred  merely  to  number  their 
works,  with  a  general  title  indicating  the  type 
of  structure,  as  sonata,  fugue,  symphony, 
nocturne. 

Another  and  far  more  definite  and  exten- 
sive plan  for  suggesting  a  range  of  intellec- 
tual associations  is  realized  in  modern  "pro- 
gram" music,  as  in  various  works  of  Liszt, 
Berlioz  and  Dvorak.  Here  a  poem  or  other 
literary  composition  is  first  selected,  and  the 
music  composed  in  harmony  with  it.  This  is 
entirely  legitimate  work,  and  the  result  is 
often  deeply  interesting  and  suggestive,  par- 
ticularly to  those  persons  who  do  not  easily 
respond  to  music  alone;  yet  such  a  method 


MUSIC  AND  THE  SPIRIT  217 

makes  music  really  illustrate  literature.  Now 
no  art  fulfills  its  own  function  most  completely  • 
when  it  is  used  to  illustrate  another  art.  Such 
work  has  its  place  and  is  helpful;  but  if  you 
wished  to  understand  painting  and  sculpture, 
you  would  turn  to  independent  masterpieces 
in  those  fields,  rather  than  to  Flaxman's  draw- 
ings for  Homer,  Botticelli's  illustrations  of  the 
Divine  Comedy  or  the  German  paintings  illus- 
trating Faust.  So  music  is  best  understood 
when  the  art  is  working  independently;  and 
the  development  of  modern  program  music, 
with  a  range  of  definite  literary  associations, 
only  proves  that  such  intellectual  reflections 
are  not  given  by  the  music  alone,  and  accen- 
tuates the  conclusions  we  have  reached  regard- 
ing the  function  of  music. 

A  further  method  of  associating  definite 
trains  of  reflection  with  musical  compositions 
has  been  developed  in  so-called  "interpreta- 
tion" of  music,  where  a  lecturer  goes  through 
a  composition,  associating  the  intellectual  con- 
ceptions which  to  him  seem  appropriate  with 
the  changing  appeal  of  the  work.  This  is  often 
a  great  help  in  opening  the  door  to  the  appre- 
ciation of  music,  especially  for  the  uninitiated. 


218  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

I  recall  a  remarkable  instance  of  such  an  inter- 
pretation of  Beethoven's  Moonlight  Sonata 
given  by  no  less  a  philosopher  than  Dr.  Wm. 
T.  Harris.  The  sonata  was  played  over  by 
a  masterly  artist,  and  then  Dr.  Harris  took  it 
up,  passage  by  passage,  and  interpreted  its 
development.  Its  central  conflicts,  he  said, 
represented  the  struggle  of  the  Titans  with 
the  gods.  We  could  see  Pelion  heaped  on 
Ossa  as  he  proceeded,  and  followed  with  him 
the  story  until  the  Titans  were  cast  into  Tar- 
tarus and  the  gods  calmly  conquered  in  the 
end.  It  was  all  deeply  interesting;  yet  if  the 
hearer  supposed  Beethoven  wrote  the  sonata 
to  illustrate  that  story  he  would  utterly  mis- 
understand the  music.  A  dozen  other  stories 
furnish  equally  good  associations,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, the  conflict  of  the  gods  of  Asgard 
with  the  Jotuns,  or  the  struggle  of  Napoleon 
and  his  veterans  with  the  snow  and  ice  of 
Russia  and  the  hosts  of  her  barbaric  popula- 
tion. The  "interpretation"  may  thus  suggest 
an  interesting  train  of  intellectual  ideas  to  as- 
sociate with  the  music,  thus  aiding  especially 
those  who  find  the  art  somewhat  intangible; 
but  if  it  is  supposed  to  give  the  meaning  of 


MUSIC  AND  THE  SPIRIT  219 

the  music,  it  is  worse  than  useless,  positively 
hampering  a  sound  response  to  music,  by  sub- 
stituting something  else  for  it.  Thus  it  should 
be  evident  why  it  is  so  much  more  difficult 
to  put  music  into  terms  of  the  intellect  than 
is  true  of  the  other  arts.  At  best  we  can  sug- 
gest intellectual  associations  to  accompany  the 
direct  appeal  of  the  music,  but  it  is  always  a 
mistake  to  push  the  attempt  far. 

There  is  a  further  refinement  in  the  function 
of  music  owing  to  the  fact,  already  noted,  that 
its  forms  are  dynamic,  contrasting  with  the 
statical  forms  of  sculpture,  painting  and  archi- 
tecture. As  a  composition  is  rendered,  each 
sound- form  is  freshly  created,  annulling  those 
preceding  and  giving  way  to  those  following. 
Thus  these  forms  impress  the  sense  only  mo- 
mentarily, and  cannot  be  held  fixedly  as  in  the 
case  of  the  other  arts.  In  consequence,  music 
peculiarly  sublimates  its  form,  the  spiritual 
content  being  freed  from  sensuous  association 
more  than  is  true  of  the  other  arts.  This  makes 
it  possible  for  music  to  fulfill  a  unique  func- 
tion in  relation  to  the  life  of  the  spirit. 

This  is  the  more  significant,  in  that  emotion, 
to  which  music  appeals,  is  more  generic  and 


220  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

elemental  than  the  understanding,  transcend- 
ing in  scope  the  activity  of  the  imagination. 
It  is  possible  to  conceive  what  we  can  never 
imagine,  because  the  imagination  works  wholly 
within  the  limits  of  the  sensible  world.  We 
can,  for  example,  conceive  a  world  in  space 
of  two  or  four  dimensions,  and  can  readily 
construct  a  mathematics  for  such  a  world ;  but 
it  is  impossible  to  imagine  life  under  such  con- 
ditions. The  reason  is  that  our  minds  are  built 
on  the  plan  of  space  of  three  dimensions,  and 
the  moment  we  try  to  picture  anything  for  the 
imagination,  we  give  it  length,  breadth  and 
thickness.  So  it  is  possible  to  conceive  the  ex- 
istence of  an  immaterial  soul;  but  when  we 
imagine  it,  we  usually  represent  it  as  an  at- 
tentuated  transparent  body  in  space  of  three 
dimensions.  This  leads  inevitably  to  absurd 
contradictions,  as  when  Dante  represents  the 
immaterial  soul  of  Virgil  holding  Dante  and 
his  physical  body  on  the  back  of  the  mon- 
ster Geryon.  Similarly  we  can  think  the 
idea  of  an  omnipresent,  omniscient  God,  but 
we  cannot  imagine  Him,  and  every  attempt 
to  do  so  ends  in  absurdity.  That  is  why  paint- 
ing and  sculpture  fail  so  universally  in  their 


MUSIC  AND  THE  SPIRIT  221 

attempts  to  portray  the  Divine.  The  Greek 
gods  are  satisfying  because  they  are  so  human. 
They  represent  phases  and  attributes  of  man 
lifted  to  the  skies.  Take  in  contrast,  one  of 
the  most  wonderful  of  all  efforts  to  paint  God 
—Michael  Angelo's  Creation  of  Adam  on  the 
ceiling  of  the  Sistine  Chapel.  Twice  God  said, 
"Let  there  be  light" :  once  when  physical  light 
came,  and  again — the  greater  wonder — when 
the  human  soul  was  born.  The  figure  of  the 
Divine,  in  this  fresco,  appears  above,  sur- 
rounded by  angels,  with  one  strange  feminine 
figure  under  the  arm.  The  right  hand  is 
stretched  out,  and  one  finger  touches  the  finger 
of  Adam,  who  lies  recumbent  upon  the  ground. 
Now  we  know  what  Michael  Angelo  meant  in 
the  portrayal  of  the  Most  High ;  but  what  has 
he  really  given  for  the  senses  and  the  imag- 
ination? A  large,  old,  bearded  man.  That, 
to  represent  God?  It  is  merely  an  absurd 
caricature  compared  to  our  conception  of  the 
Divine.  The  Adam,  on  the  other  hand,  is  en- 
tirely satisfying.  As  you  look  upon  him,  you 
realize  that  a  moment  ago  he  was  the  dust  of 
the  earth.  The  finger  of  God  touches  him,  and 
you  can  almost  see  dawning  in  his  face  the 


222  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

look  of  wonder,  heartache,  world-hunger, 
tragedy,  that  was  to  be  human  life  ever  after. 
The  point  is,  Michael  Angelo  knew  man,  he 
had  lived  man,  he  could  paint  man;  but  when 
he  wanted  to  represent  God,  the  best  he  could 
do  was  to  portray  a  man's  face  and  body,  and 
omit  the  elements  more  definitely  human. 

Poetry  fails  in  the  same  way.  Milton  at- 
tempts in  Paradise  Lost  to  represent  an  om- 
nipotent, omniscient  God  at  war  with  part  of 
his  subjects.  How  impossible  to  imagine!  You 
understand  his  conception,  but  the  God  he  has 
painted  is,  for  the  imagination,  a  jealous  ty- 
rant whom  you  cannot  respect.  Milton's 
Adam  and  Eve  are  not  vitally  moving;  but 
the  great,  strong,  marred,  Anglo-Saxon  rebel 
Satan,  who  would  rather  "reign  in  hell  than 
serve  in  heaven,"  takes  powerful  hold  of  the 
imagination,  if  you  allow  yourself  to  respond 
directly  to  the  poetry,  (The  reason  is  that 
Milton  himself  was  a  good  deal  like  his  hero, 
Satan;  he  understood  that  character,  and  hence 
could  portray  it  with  satisfying  reality?) 

What  is  impossible  to  the  arts  picturing  for 
the  imagination  is,  in  a  different  way,  accom- 
plished by  music,  since  music  can  waken  in  us 


MUSIC  AND  THE  SPIRIT  223 

the  emotions  we  feel  when  we  think  the  tran- 
scendent, the  supernatural,  the  Divine.  Think, 
for  example,  your  own  conception  of  God: 
you  could  not  imagine  it ;  no  artist  could  paint 
it ;  but  have  you  not  heard  strains  of  music,  as 
for  instance,  in  the  third  movement  of  the 
Ninth  Symphony  of  Beethoven,  that  awaken 
in  you  the  emotion  you  feel  when  you  think 
your  conception  of  God? 

So  it  is  possible  to  conceive  a  transcendent 
heaven,  perfectly  satisfying.  No  artist  could 
paint  or  describe  it;  and  the  heaven  of  golden 
streets  and  pearly  gates  never  can  appeal  to 
the  imagination  as  satisfyingly  as  green  grass, 
blue  skies  and  gray  seas.  Have  you  not,  how- 
ever, heard  music,  as  in  the  most  moving  por- 
tion of  the  love-music  of  Tristan  und  Isolde, 
that  put  you  into  just  the  emotional  state  you 
are  in  when  you  think  your  conception  of  a 
transcendent  heaven  of  joy? 

Music  is  thus  rightly  said  to  be  "the  one  art 
capable  of  revealing  the  infinite."  It  does  not, 
strictly  speaking,  reveal  the  infinite,  but  it 
can  awaken  in  us  the  emotions  associated  with 
the  conception  of  it.  That  is  what  Browning's 
Abt  Vogler  means  in  speaking  of  the  miracle 


224  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

achieved  by  music,  as  compared  with  the  other 
arts: 

"But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will 

that  can, 
Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them  and, 

lo,  they  are ! 

And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  al- 
lowed to  man, 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth 

sound,  but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well:  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is 

naught ; 
It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud,  soft,  and  all 

is  said: 
Give  it  to  me  to  use !     I  mix  it  with  two  in  my 

thought : 

And,  there !     Ye  have  heard  and  seen :  consider 
and  bow  the  head !" 

The  wonder  is  that  a  series  of  forms  in  the 
physical  world,  born  and  dying  in  quick 
succession,  can  produce  another  series  in  the 
psychical  world — a  series  of  emotional  states 
which  we  experience.  How  did  the  first  series 
produce  the  second?  To  answer  this  question 
would  be  to  touch  the  heart  of  the  mystery 
of  all  life.  Thus  music  stands  in  unique  rela- 


MUSIC  AND  THE  SPIRIT  225 

tion  to  the  life  of  the  spirit;  the  response  to 
music  is  the  best  symbol  for  the  deepest  phases 
of  the  inner  life ;  and  Browning  is  right,  in  Abt 
Vogler,  in  passing  from  the  highest  experience 
of  music  to  the  philosophy  of  the  soul. 

From  what  has  been  said  it  will  be  evident 
that  music  is  the  most  personal  of  the  arts, ( 
searching  down  into  the  spirit  and  bringing 
to  expression  feelings  that  lie  far  too  deep  for 
words  ever  to  embody  them.  Did  you  ever  sit 
through  an  evening  of  great  music,  and  at  the 
end  turn  unconsciously  to  those  near  you,  won- 
dering if  your  soul  had  been  laid  bare  to  them 
as  it  had  been  to  yourself?  One  realizes  then 
how  deeply  personal  are  the  emotions  which 
music  wakens  in  the  appreciative  hearer. 

Take  for  illustration  a  typical  modern  com- 
position— Wagner's  Overture  to  Tannhduser. 
Other  arts  could  present  the  different  motives. 
Sculpture  could  carve  its  golden  Venus,  paint- 
ing portray  its  maiden  Elizabeth,  poetry  could 
describe  the  pilgrims  returning  from  the  south ; 
but  in  the  music  all  these  are  given  at  once.  In 
the  shrill  cry  of  passion  that  echoes  from  the 
vibrant  strings  of  the  violin,  in  the  noble  motif 
of  Elizabeth,  the  deep  tones  of  the  pilgrim 


226  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

chorus,  it  is  as  if  a  cross-section  had  been  taken 
at  a  single  instant  of  the  human  spirit.  Man 
is  not  led  now  by  one  desire  and  now  by  an- 
other, but  a  thousand  desires  play  upon  the 
body  and  spirit  all  the  time;  and,  until  one 
of  them  has  been  affirmed  and  made  a  motive, 
the  individual  might  move  in  any  direction. 
Thus  the  music  can  take  the  wealth  of  desires 
and  aspirations  and  fuse  them  in  one  great 
billowy  ocean  of  sound  which,  as  in  this  Over- 
ture,, sweeps  over  us  and  seems  almost  to  draw 
the  breath  from  the  body. 

If  music  is  thus  the  most  personal  of  the 
arts,  it  is  at  the  same  time  the  most  social.  It 
is  an  art  we  enjoy  together;  and  if  all  the 
listeners  appreciate,  the  more  there  are  present, 
the  greater  joy  should  there  be  for  each. 

'Music,  moreover,  makes  its  appeal  to  that 
aspect  of  life  which  unifies  us.  The  intellect 
isolates,  the  emotions  unite.  Men  are  sepa- 
rated by  intellectual  opinion  and  conviction, 
they  are  united  in  feeling — whether  it  be  the 
passion  of  the  mob  or  the  aspiration  of  hu- 

Smanity.  Thus  the  spatial  arts  define,  isolate, 
clarify;  music  fuses,  sweeps,  unites.  This 
should  make  clear  why  music  is  at  once  a  primi- 


MUSIC  AND  THE  SPIRIT  227 

tive  and  universal  art,  and  one  expressing  the 
utmost  refinement  of  civilization. 

Thus  it  is  easy  to  see  why  music  lends  itself 
so  readily  to  combination  with  other  arts,  since 
they  may  give  the  definite  conceptions  with 
which  music  associates  its  emotional  appeal. 
The  composite  arts,  which  form  so  remarkable 
an  expression  of  modern  life,  are  reserved  for 
discussion  in  a  subsequent  chapter  (XV) ; 
meantime,  let  us  note  that  their  development 
has  been  made  possible  by  the  wonderful  cul- 
tivation of  the  art  of  music  in  modern  times. 

Alone  or  in  combination,  music  does  its 
work,  cultivating  and  refining  the  sensuous  and 
emotional  susceptibility,  and  thus  rendering 
one  more  finely  and  deeply  responsive  to  all 
beauty,  to  love,  the  moral  ideal  and  religion. 
It  may  exalt  one  to  a  plane  where,  for  a  time, 
the  ideal  seems  possible,  and  is  more  possible. 
Thus  the  marvelous,  fluid,  ever-growing  tem- 
ple of  sound,  surviving  across  the  centuries  in 
a  few  black  marks  upon  a  page,  recreated  in  a 
liquid  wonder  of  flowing  forms  by  each  artist 
anew,  fulfills  a  wondrous  function  for  the  spirit 
of  man,  and  has  therefore  won  its  place  as  a 
leading  expression  of  modern  life. 


"If  it  is  true  that  painting  and  poetry  in  their  imitations 
make  use  of  entirely  different  means  or  symbols — the  first, 
namely,  of  form  and  color  in  space,  the  second  of  articulated 
sounds  in  time — if  these  symbols  indisputably  require  a  suit- 
able relation  to  the  thing  symbolized,  then  it  is  clear  that  sym- 
bols arranged  in  juxtaposition  can  only  express  subjects  of 
which  the  wholes  or  parts  exist  in  juxtaposition;  while  con- 
secutive symbols  can  only  express  subjects  of  which  the 
wholes  or  parts  are  themselves  consecutive. 

Subjects  whose  wholes  or  parts  exist  in  juxtaposition  are 
called  bodies.  Consequently,  bodies  with  their  visible  proper- 
ties are  the  peculiar  subjects  of  painting. 

Subjects  whose  wholes  or  parts  are  consecutive  are  called 
actions.  Consequently,  actions  are  the  peculiar  subject  of 
poetry. 

Still,  all  bodies  do  not  exist  in  space  only,  but  also  in 
time.  They  endure,  and  in  each  moment  of  their  duration 
may  assume  a  different  appearance,  or  stand  in  a  different 
combination.  Each  of  these  momentary  appearances  and  com- 
binations is  the  effect  of  a  preceding  one,  may  be  the  cause  of 
a  subsequent  one,  and  is  therefore,  as  it  were,  the  centre  of 
an  action.  Consequently,  painting  too  can  imitate  actions,  but 
only  indicatively,  by  means  of  bodies. 

On  the  other  hand,  actions  cannot  exist  by  themselves, 
they  must  depend  on  certain  beings.  So  far,  'therefore,  as 
these  beings  are  bodies,  or  are  regarded  as  such,  poetry  paints 
bodies,  but  only  indicatively,  by  means  of  actions. 

In  its  coexisting  compositions  painting  can  only  make 
use  of  a  single  instant  of  the  action,  and  must  therefore  choose 
the  one  which  is  most  pregnant,  and  from  which  what  pre- 
cedes and  what  follows  can  be  most  easily  gathered. 

In  like  manner,  poetry,  in  its  progressive  imitations,  is 
confined  to  the  use  of  a  single  property  of  bodies,  and  must 
therefore  choose  that  which  calls  up  the  most  sensible  image 
of  the  body  in  the  aspect  in  which  she  makes  use  of  it." — 
Lessing,  Laokoon,  pp.  91,  92. 


228 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE    MEANING    AND    FUNCTION    OF    PO- 
ETRY:   THE    RELATION    OF    POETRY 
TO   SCULPTURE   AND   PAINTING 

WE  have  found  Music,  presenting  its 
dynamic  series  of  sound  forms  in 
time  relation,  strikingly  contrasting 
in  function  with  sculpture  and  painting,  the 
arts  portraying  forms  in  space  relations.  We 
turn  now  to  the  third  great  type  of  ideal  art, 
literature,  studied  in  its  highest  aspect,  poetry. 
There  is  a  more  bewildering  wealth  of  material 
in  this  art  than  in  all  the  others,  and,  as  we 
shall  see,  the  widest  range  of  functions.  Per- 
haps these  can  be  made  evident  most  quickly 
if  we  begin  by  comparing  poetry  with  the  arts 
previously  studied,  and  first  with  sculpture. 

Let  it  be  noted  that  poetry  can  carve  its 
marble  statues,  though  with  less  power  and  by 
other  methods  than  sculpture.  It  can  express 
definite  conceptions  for  the  intellect,  through 
spatial  forms  given  for  the  imagination.  Let 

229 


230  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

us  take  a  great  example  in  one  of  Shelley's 
most  powerful  sonnets: 

OZYMANDIAS  OF  E&YPT 

"I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said:  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shatter'd  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamp'd  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mock'd  them  and  the  heart  that  fed ; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear: 
'My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair!' 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away." 

Let  us  omit,  for  the  present,  the  element  of 

music  in  the  poem,  and  consider  only  what  is 

^carved  and  painted  for  the  imagination.    The 

;   ruined  statue  is  given  here,  no  less  truly  than 

in  sculpture,  though  for  the  inner  vision,  and 

with  less  smiting  impressiveness  than  if  one 

stood  in  the  desolate  sand-waste  beside  the  legs 

of  stone,  with  the  shattered  head  lying  near. 


THE  MEANING  OF  POETRY  231 

It  is  given,  however,  not  by  the  combination 
of  the  forms  in  space  for  the  eye,  but  through 
the  enumeration  of  a  series  of  characteristic 
traits  in  time  succession.  Thus  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  reader  must  cooperate  actively  in 
fusing  these  traits  in  one,  in  order  to  see  the 
statue  and  its  setting  with  the  inner  vision. 
That  is  why  the  success  of  the  descriptive  poem 
depends  upon  the  wise  choice  of  characteristic 
traits  and  suggestive  epithets  and  images, 
which  enable  the  reader  to  see  the  picture  as  a 
whole  with  the  imagination.  Wise  restraint 
on  the  poet's  part  is  necessary,  since  too  many 
traits  and  images  confuse  and  obscure  the  vis- 
ion. Thus  Shelley's  genius  is  evident  in  the 
choice  here:  "vast"  and  "trunkless"  "legs  of 
stone";  a  "shattered"  visage,  with  "frown" 
and  "wrinkled  lip"  and  "sneer  of  cold  com- 
mand": these  most  significant  traits  and  sug- 
gestive epithets  are  just  enough  powerfully  to 
stimulate  the  imagination  to  the  vision  of  the 
ruined  statue.  So  in  portraying  the  setting: 
"boundless"  and  "bare,"  the  "lone"  and  "level" 
sands  "stretch  far  away":  one  seems  really  to 
stand  in  the  sand  waste  and  look  out  over  the 
majestic  desolation, 


232  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Poetry  must  therefore  depend  upon  associa- .  / 
tion  and  suggestion  for  its  carrying  power  in  * 
description;  and  one  mark  of  a  great  poet  is 
the  ability  to  choose  powerfully  visualizing   V 
epithets    and    images.      Homer's    traditional 
greatness,   for  example,  results  in  no  small 
measure   from  his   preeminent   possession   of 
this  quality — "ox-eyed  Juno,"  "rosy-fingered 
Dawn,"    "blue-eyed    Pallas,"    "earth-shaking 
Neptune,"    "swift-footed    Iris,"    "cloud-com- 
pelling Zeus,"  "far-darting  Apollo,"  "golden 
Aphrodite":  the  atmosphere  of  the  Iliad  de- 
pends much  upon  these  wonderfully  suggestive 
epithets. 

It  was  this  fact  that  poetry  must  present  its 
traits  of  form  in  time  succession,  while  sculp- 
ture and  painting  combine  them  in  space  rela- 
tions, that  Lessing  hit  upon  in  the  Laokoon, 
though  his  interpretation  was  faulty.  He  con- 
cluded, from  this  contrast,  that  the  business  of 
sculpture  and  painting  was  to  portray  bodies 
in  space,  while  poetry  should  present  actions 
in  time.  The  view  is  illuminating,  and  was 
especially  so  to  that  fresh  awakening  of  Ger- 
man art  in  which  Lessing  was  so  great  an  in- 
spiration; yet  the  conclusion  goes  beyond  the 


THE  MEANING  OF  POETRY  233 

mark.  The  spatial  arts  can  represent  action, 
sometimes  most  powerfully,  as  in  Meissonier's 
great  painting  previously  studied ;  but  only  by 
portraying  bodies  in  space  at  a  significant  mo- 
ment of  action.  So  poetry  can  present  bodies, 
but  only  through  a  series  of  suggestive  traits 
given  in  time  succession.  Thus  Lessing  was 
right  as  to  the  main  business  of  the  two  types 
of  art;  but  each  reaches  over  into  the  field  of 
the  other  far  more  than  he  was  aware;  and 
while  description,  or  the  portrayal  of  bodies  in 
space,  is  not  the  chief  function  of  poetry,  it 
is  a  most  significant  element,  accomplished  by 
the  method  we  have  shown. 

We  experience  sensuous  pleasure  in  seeing, 
with  the  inner  vision,  what  Shelley  has  carved 
and  painted  for  us;  but  this  pleasure  is  less 
direct  and  strong  than  with  sculpture,  where 
the  forms  and  colors  are  given  for  the  actual 
physical  vision.  On  the  other  hand,  just  be- 
cause the  sensuous  response  is  more  subtle  and 
indirect,  the  spiritual  content  in  poetry  is  less 
bound  to  sensuous  associations  than  is  the  case 
in  sculpture  and  painting,  while  the  aesthetic 
satisfaction  in  the  adequacy  and  harmony  with 


234  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

which  the  conceptions  are  expressed,  is  as  great 
certainly  as  in  the  case  of  the  other  arts. 

With  the  limitation  in  its  power  to  present 
forms  in  space,  as  compared  with  sculpture, 
poetry  has  a  complementary  greatness  in  dir- 
ectly associating  with  these  forms  a  wide  range 
of  thoughts  and  emotions,  thus  interpreting 
them  in  terms  of  the  human  spirit.  Sculpture 
gives  us  the  statue,  and  we  make  of  it  what 
we  can.  Poetry,  less  powerfully  and  directly, 
gives  us  the  statue,  and  associates  its  interpre- 
tation in  terms  of  human  thought  and  feeling. 
When  Shelley  says  of  the  shattered  face : 

"Whose  frown 

And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed," 

we  know  fully  the  impression  made  by  the 
fallen  statue  on  Shelley's  mind  and  heart,  and 
we  share  his  experience.  So  with  the  irony  of 
the  inscription  in  relation  to  the  fallen  statue 
and  desolate  sand  waste:  we  are  made  to  feel 
the  tragic  vanity  of  the  great  king's  arrogance 
in  imagining  that  his  works  would  be  the  de- 


THE  MEANING  OF  POETRY  235 

spair  of  subsequent  tyrants,  while  only  the  ruin 
of  his  own  statue  faintly  records  his  otherwise 
forgotten  name. 

As  indicated  in  this  study  of  Shelley's  son- 
net, poetry  can  paint  its  picture  as  well  as 
carve  its  statue.  Let  us  take  an  example  of 
pure  descriptive  poetry  at  its  best — one  of 
Wordsworth's  finest  sonnets: 

UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE 
Sept.  3,  1802. 

"Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  City  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theaters,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky, — 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still !  " 


236  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

To  make  clear  the  comparison  with  paint- 
ing, think  what  Corot  would  have  done  with 
this  scene.  He  would  have  given  us  in  one 
painting  the  whole  sleeping  city,  with  the  sun- 
light and  atmosphere  over  it,  seen  from  a 
single  view-point,  in  one  moment  of  time^ — 
the  different  elements  being  combined  in  a 
unity  in  space  relations.  He  would  have 
burned  the  scene  in  on  the  imagination, 
through  the  physical  vision,  with  a  power 
greater  even  than  Wordsworth's;  yet  the  poet 
succeeds  in  painting  the  picture,  through  the 
J  succession  of  forms  suggested  for  the  imagina- 
tion, which  must  fuse  these  in  one  scene.  In- 
deed, Wordsworth  even  ventures  upon  a  cata- 
logue— a  dangerous  device  in  poetry — even 
Homer  nods  when  he  attempts  to  catalogue 
the  ships  for  Ilium;  yet  here  the  enumeration 
of  "ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres  and  tem- 
ples," gives  just  those  big  elements  of  the  pic- 
ture necessary  to  visualizing  it  as  a  whole. 

If  less  pregnant  than  Shelley's  in  giving 
vital  concrete  traits,  Wordsworth's  sonnet  is 
wider  in  its  use  of  suggestive  association.  Com- 
pare the  city  wearing  "like  a  garment"  the 
"beauty  of  the  morning";  the  various  aspects 


THE  MEANING  OF  POETRY  237 

of  the  city  "silent,  bare"  "open  unto  the  fields, 
and  to  the  sky,"  "all  bright  and  glittering  in 
the  smokeless  air."  How  these  descriptive 
words  and  phrases  carry  the  atmosphere  of  the 
scene  and  stimulate  the  imagination  to  realize 
it  as  a  whole.  So  with  the  river  gliding  "at 
his  own  sweet  will,"  in  implied  contrast  with 
the  week  days,  when  the  river  is  dominated  by 
human  traffic;  and  the  "very  houses"  asleep, 
with  the  "mighty  heart"  of  the  city  "lying 
still,"  in  strange  contrast  to  the  usual  restless 
activity  of  the  city:  one  gets  the  very  mood  of 
its  impression  on  this  beautiful  Sunday 
morning. 

The  beauty  of  the  picture,  painted  by  the 
poem  with  the  cooperation  of  the  reader's  inner 
vision,  gives  keen  sensuous  pleasure,  as  well 
as  aesthetic  delight,  which  springs  also  from  the 
harmony  in  the  expression  of  the  thought  and 
mood.  More  than  in  Shelley's  sonnet,  there  is 
here  direct  expression  of  both  thought  and 
emotion,  through  the  interpretation  of  the 
scene  in  its  impression  on  Wordsworth's  own 
senses,  mind  and  heart. 

"Dull  would  he  be  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty," 


238  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

gives  the  poet's  own  view  as  to  what  man's  re- 
lations to  such  a  scene  should  be.  Then  the 
contrast,  suggested  in  a  few  brief  touches, 
with  the  nature  world,  to  which  we  usually 
turn  for  the  beauty  of  calm  repose;  affirming 
the  sleeping  city  as  equally  beautiful  in  the 
radiance  of  the  sunlight,  and  even  more  peace- 
ful, in  ironic  opposition  to  its  usual  mood:  all 
this  is  interpretation  of  the  given  picture  in 
terms  of  the  human  spirit. 

Let  me  take,  as  a  third  illustration,  a  bit  of 
my  own  work  that  happens  to  contain  ele- 
ments of  both  sculpture  and  painting.  On  the 
bold  front  of  a  mountain  in  the  Franconia 
notch,  in  New  Hampshire,  looks  out  the  stern 
profile  of  a  human  face — not  a  mere  freak  of 
nature,  but  majestic  beyond  what  one  could  be- 
lieve beforehand,  and  worthy  to  have  been 
chiseled  by  the  hand  of  God.  It  and  its  set- 
ting form  the  theme  in  the  following : 

THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 

Stern,  grave  and  silent,  majestically  he  broods 
Above  the  lake  and  forests  stretched  below; 
Not  answering  to  the  call  of  human  voices 
That,   shallow   in  laughter,   or  deep   in   awestruck 
tones, 


THE  MEANING  OF  POETRY  239 

Sound  o'er  the  lake  and  wake  the  echoing  hills; 

Projecting  from  the  mountain's  naked  front, 

As  reaching  out  to  meet  on  equal  terms 

And  with  a  calmer  strength  the  onrushing  storms. 

Harsh  as  the  granite  of  the  mountain  heights, 

Yet  smoothed  as  by  the  flow  of  living  waters 

That  round  the  boulders  on  the  eternal  slopes; 

Gigantic  in  the  strength  of  even  brow 

And  long,  firm  nose  above  the  hard,  rude  chin ; 

Yet  open  lips,  just  parted,  wonderingly, 

As  with  the  eternal  question,  ever  asked 

But  never  answered  by  the  mind  of  man ; 

The  suppressed  tenderness  but  gathering  force 

From  the  hard  strength  that  drives  all  feeling  back : 

Inexorable  Nature  in  the  pitiless  calm, 

Human  in  depth  and  might  of  life  reserved, 

As  hungering  to  break  the  eternal  silence 

In  one  great,  wild,  all-voicing  human  cry. 

Such  is  the  face !    Gaze  and  be  silent,  Man, 

And  learn  that  in  this  mystic  sculpturing 

Of  the  Almighty  Hand,  are  fused  in  one 

The  two  supreme,  unanswered  mysteries — 

Nature  and  Man,  revealed  but  unexplained. 

The  face  is  chiseled,  but  less  directly  and 
impressively  than  in  sculpture.  The  environ- 
ing nature  world  is  pictured,  but  less  power- 
fully than  in  painting.  Instead  of  giving  the 


240  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

different  forms  fused  in  space  relations,  in 
one  moment  of  time,  the  poem  must  carve  the 
face  and  paint  the  picture  by  a  succession  of 
forms  given  in  time  relation.  The  descriptive 
epithets  and  phrases  not  only  aid  the  imagina- 
tion to  visualize  the  objects  portrayed,  but  add 
the  association  of  human  thought  and  emotion. 
Finally,  the  poem  gives  the  direct  interpreta- 
tion of  the  face  and  its  surroundings  in  terms 
of  the  spirit  of  man. 

Turning  again  for  a  moment  to  Lessing's 
view  of  the  relation  of  poetry  to  sculpture  and 
painting,  we  should  now  be  able  to  see  clearly 
at  once  its  value  and  faults.  In  sculpture  and 
painting  the  aim  is,  as  Lessing  saw,  to  por- 
tray objective  forms  and  colors  directly  for  the 
eye,  and  through  these  to  give  concepts  for  the 
intellect;  while  (though  in  larger  measure  than 
Lessing  realized)  action  and  the  development 
of  a  story  can  be  represented  only  by  choosing 
a  significant  moment  of  the  action.  In  poetry 
the  description  of  objects  is  not  an  end,  and  so 
far  Lessing  was  right ;  it  is,  however,  a  legiti- 
mate means,  the  aim  being  to  give  and  inter- 
pret the  object  or  scene,  in  terms  of  human 
thought  and  feeling,  and  by  the  less  direct 


THE  MEANING  OF  POETRY  241 

method  of  a  succession  of  traits  and  associa- 
tions given  in  time  relation.  Thus  without  in 
any  degree  taking  the  place  of  sculpture  and 
painting,  or  fulfilling  their  specific  functions, 
poetry  does  reach  over  into  the  field  of  those 
arts,  combining  something  of  their  functions 
with  purposes  of  its  own. 

Let  us  compare  the  treatment  of  the  same 
theme  in  the  two  contrasting  types  of  art.  In 
the  modern  gallery  at  Florence  is  a  painting  by 
Castagnola  representing  Fra  Lippo  Lippi 
making  love  to  the  novice,  Lucrezia  Buti,  who 
served  as  his  model  for  the  frescoes  at  Prato. 
The  girl,  in  convent  garb,  is  seated  in  a  chair. 
The  painter  has  turned  toward  her  from  his 
easel  and  half-finished  picture.  She  draws  back 
half -frightened,  yet  fascinated;  in  her  face  is 
portrayed  the  struggle  between  the  old  life, 
with  its  vows,  habits  and  training,  and  the  flood 
of  new  life  that  surges  up  into  consciousness 
and  takes  possession  of  her  above  her  will.  No 
poem  could  give  that  one  psychological  mo- 
ment, with  all  it  carries  of  past  and  future,  so 
powerfully  as  does  this  painting. 

Browning's  dramatic  monologue  of  Fra 
Lippo  Lippi  cannot  bring  home  the  one  situa- 


242  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

tion  to  the  physical  vision,  and  through  it  to 
the  intellect,  with  the  same  reality;  yet  in  the 
poem,  the  painter,  surprised  by  the  night  watch 
as  he  is  sneaking  home  from  some  merry  ren- 
dezvous to  the  hospitable  prison  of  the  Medi- 
cean  palace,  tells  the  whole  story  of  his  life. 
He  narrates  the  main  incidents  of  his  career 
from  childhood  onward,  giving  his  relation  to 
the  cloister,  his  view  of  art,  a  suggestive  de- 
scription of  certain  of  his  paintings,  and  the 
heart  of  his  character  and  attitude  toward  life. 
Thus,  with  far  less  smiting  power  in  giving  di- 
rectly for  the  physical  sense,  and  through  it 
for  the  intellect,  one  moment  of  the  painter's 
life,  the  poem  gives  a  vastly  wider  view  of 
Fra  Lippo,  of  his  epoch  and  his  relation  to  art 
and  life  in  all  time. 

In  the  Metropolitan  gallery  in  New  York, 
among  other  beautiful  landscape  paintings,  is 
an  October  Afternoon  by  J.  Francis  Murphy. 
It  is  all  in  soft  yellows.  The  trees  are  still; 
the  leaves  are  golden  upon  them  and  upon  the 
ground.  The  moment  chosen  is  the  one  when 
Nature  flames  forth  in  her  loveliest  garment 
before  the  gray  white  sleep  of  the  winter  time. 
One  dreams  of  the  summer  that  is  gone  and 


THE  MEANING  OF  POETRY  243 

anticipates  the  chill  that  is  soon  coming.  That 
moment,  with  the  conceptions  it  involves,  is 
given  perfectly  in  the  painting,  and  the  mood 
one  brings  is  naturally  associated. 

Compare  with  this  the  following  sonnet  of 
Shakespeare's — to  my  mind  the  most  beauti- 
ful ever  written  in  the  freer  English  form : 

"That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang: 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest: 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by: 

— This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more 

strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long." 

Three  pictures  are  painted  in  the  three 
quatrains  severally.  Each  is  beautiful,  clear 


244  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

to  the  inner  vision,  done  through  a  few  most 
skillfully  suggested  traits.  How  far  short  each 
of  these  pictures  falls  of  the  actual  painting 
for  the  outer  eye;  yet  the  traits  given  carry  a 
definite  thought  and  mood,  and  interpret  what 
they  give  to  the  imagination.  Finally,  the  last 
two  lines  interpret  the  autumn,  the  twilight, 
the  dying  fire  upon  the  hearth,  in  terms  of  the 
deepest  experiences  of  the  human  heart,  thus 
making  the  three  pictures  a  symbolic  language 
for  life  and  love. 


"Form  without  substance  is  a  shadow  of  riches,  and  all 
possible  cleverness  in  expression  is  of  no  use  to  him  who  has 
nothing  to  express." — Schiller,  Essays  jEsthetical  and  Philo- 
sophical, p.  239. 

"Beauty  of  style  and  harmony  and  grace  and  good  rhythm 
depend  on  simplicity, — I  mean  the  true  simplicity  of  a  rightly 
and  nobly  ordered  mind  and  character,  not  that  other  simpli- 
city which  is  only  an  euphuism  for  folly." — Plato,  Republic, 
book  III,  section  400. 

"In  instruments,  the  primal  organs  of  creation  and  nature 
find  their  representation;  they  cannot  be  sharply  determined 
and  defined,  for  they  but  repeat  primal  feelings  as  they  came 
forth  from  the  chaos  of  the  first  creation,  when  there  were 
perhaps  no  human  beings  in  existence  to  receive  them  in 
their  hearts.  With  the  genius  of  the  human  voice  it  is  en- 
tirely otherwise;  this  represents  the  human  heart,  and  its  iso- 
lated, individual  emotion.  Its  character  is  therefore  limited, 
but  fixed  and  defined.  Let  these  two  elements  be  brought  to- 
gether, then;  let  them  be  united!  Let  those  wild  primal  emo- 
tions that  stretch  out  into  the  infinite,  that  are  represented 
by  instruments,  be  contrasted  with  the  clear,  definite  emotions 
of  the  human  heart,  represented  by  the  human  voice.  The 
addition  of  the  second  element  will  work  beneficently  and 
soothingly  upon  the  conflict  of  the  elemental  emotions,  and 
give  to  their  course  a  well-defined  and  united  channel;  and 
the  human  heart  itself,  in  receiving  these  elemental  emotions, 
will  be  immeasurably  strengthened  and  broadened;  and  made 
capable  of  feeling  clearly  what  was  before  an  uncertain  pres- 
age of  the  highest  ideal,  now  changed  into  a  divine*knowledge." 
— Wagner,  in  "A  Pilgrimage  to  Beethoven,"^  rt  Life  and  The- 
ories, p.  63. 


246 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE  MEANING  AND  FUNCTION  OF  POETRY: 
THE  RELATION  OF  POETRY  TO  MUSIC 

SO  far  we  have  been  studying  poetry  in 
comparison  with  sculpture  and  painting; 
let  us  turn  now  to  its  relation  to  the 
other  great  type  of  art — music.  All  the  poems 
studied  in  the  preceding  chapter  have  a  direct 
musical  appeal;  in  fact,  the  direct  sensuous 
effect  of  poetry  is  to  the  physical  hearing.  All 
poetry  is  meant  to  be  read  aloud,  and  must  be 
so  read  to  have  its  full  effect;  yet,  even  when 
read  silently,  we  get  the  music  for  the  inner 
hearing,  just  as  we  get  the  vision  by  the  imag- 
ination. Read  either  way,  silently  or  aloud, 
we  must  first  get  the  words  as  sound  forms 
before  we  can  see  the  images  with  the  inner 
vision.  Thus  the  kinship  of  poetry  to  music 
is  even  closer  than  to  the  spatial  arts.  In  fact, 
all  the  elements  of  music  are  present  in  each 
of  the  poems  studied.  Rhythm  is  evident  in 
carefully  measured  meter;  melody  is  clearly 

247 


i 


248  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

present  in  the  ordered  rise  and  fall  of  accented 
and  unaccented  syllables,  in  the  diction,  the 
variations  of  movement,  and  the  modulations 
of  the  voice;  while  even  technical  harmony,  if 
rightly  defined  as  the  consonance  or  concord 
of  sounds  occurring  simultaneously  or  in  quick 
succession,  is  evident  in  rhyme,  phases  of 
meter  and  stanza-form,  to  the  extent  to  which 
it  is  used  in  the  singing  of  a  single  voice.  Even 
timbre  is  present  in  the  general  quality  of  the 
music  in  a  poem  as  a  whole. 

In  Shelley's  Ozymandias  of  Egypt  the  dic- 
tion is  strong,  sonorous,  masculine,  harmoniz- 
ing with  the  majesty  of  the  description.  The 
meter  is  iambic — as  we  have  seen,  the  simplest 
form  in  English,  with  only  an  occasional  vari- 
ation of  accent  at  the  beginning  of  a  line  and 
a  few  three-syllable  feet  in  the  whole.  The 
rhyme  is  somewhat  irregular  as  compared  with 
the  strict  sonnet  form,  but  close  enough  to 
unify  the  whole  in  thought.  The  five-foot  lines 
flow  regularly,  in  stately  harmony  with  the 
conceptions  given. 

There  is  direct  sensuous  pleasure  in  the  re- 
sponse to  the  musical  appeal,  though  less  than 
with  an  equally  great  composition  of  music. 


POETRY  AND  MUSIC  249 

Keen  aesthetic  satisfaction  is  given  by  the  har- 
mony between  the  music  and  the  spiritual  con- 
tent it  embodies.  A  generic  mood  is  awakened 
in  the  reader;  but  with  this  the  poem  directly 
associates  a  range  of  forms  and  pictures  for 
the  imagination,  and  of  definite  conceptions 
and  reflections  for  the  intellect,  thus  passing 
beyond  the  scope  and  function  of  the  art  of 
music. 

All  the  elements  of  musical  appeal,  studied 
in  Shelley's  sonnet,  are  present  equally  in 
Wordsworth's  Upon  Westminster  Bridge. 
Here  the  strict  Italian  sonnet  form  is  observed, 
the  thought  being  divided  in  harmony  with  it 
— the  first  eight  lines  describing  the  city,  while 
the  last  six  compare  it  with  nature  and  give 
the  interpretation  of  the  whole.  The  meter, 
again  iambic,  moves  with  stately  regularity, 
the  variations  at  the  beginning  of  certain  lines 
(as  the  first,  second  and  ninth)  serving  to  em- 
phasize important  words.  The  diction  is  less 
severely  majestic  and  more  softly  melodious 
than  in  Shelley's  sonnet,  thus  appropriately 
carrying  the  mood  of  peace  which  the  poem 
contains.  The  rhyme-sounds,  closely  inte- 
grated, are  especially  melodious. 


250  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

With  the  sensuous  and  sesthetic  pleasure, 
given  by  the  music  and  its  harmony  with  the 
content,  the  poem  expresses  a  definite  mood  of 
peace,  and  awakes  the  corresponding  emotional 
state  in  the  hearer  or  reader.  Thus  the  poem 
goes  over  into  the  field  of  music  and  fulfills 
directly  something  of  the  function  of  that  art ; 
but  with  the  emotional  appeal  of  the  music, 
how  vital  is  the  range  of  associated  images  and 
reflections,  interpreted  in  terms  of  the  spirit  of 
man. 

The  direct  musical  appeal  of  poetry  is  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  give  some  emotional  effect 
when  a  poem  is  read  aloud  in  a  language  we  do 
not  understand.  Let  Sappho's  Ode  to  Aphro- 
dite be  read  to  one  ignorant  of  Greek:  could 
the  hearer  fail  to  respond  to  the  beauty  of  the 
liquid  music,  and  could  he  fail  to  get,  from  the 
music  alone,  something  of  the  general  mood 
of  the  poem?  Would  not  the  dirge-like  lines 
of  Freiligrath's  O  lieb*,  so  lang  du  lieben 
kannst*  awaken  the  mood  of  tender  sadness 
even  in  one  ignorant  of  German?  So  when 
Dante's  Francesca  sobs, 

"Amor,  che  a  nullo  amato  amar  perdona," 

*  For  an  English  translation  see  the  author's  Book  of 
Meditations,  pp.  64,  65. 


POETRY  AND  MUSIC  251 

it  is  "like  the  murmuring  of  doves  in  immemo- 
rial elms,"  as  a  critic  has  said,  trying  to  echo 
in  his  harsher  English  the  moaning  melody  of 
the  original.  No  one  could  listen  to  Fran- 
cesca's  lines  without  some  emotional  response, 
even  if  the  Italian  words  meant  nothing  to  him. 
The  musical  element  in  poetry  is  so  signifi- 
cant that  there  are  many  poems  in  which  it 
makes  the  primary  and  stronger  appeal,  as  for 
instance  in  the  following  burst  of  Elizabethan 
love  song: 

DlAPHENIA 

"Diapheriia  like  the  daffadowndilly, 
White  as  the  sun,  fair  as  the  lily, 

Heigh  ho,  how  I  do  love  thee ! 
I  do  love  thee  as  my  lambs 
Are  beloved  of  their  dams ; 

How  blest  were  I  if  thou  wouldst  prove  me. 

Diaphenia  like  the  spreading  roses, 
That  in  thy  sweets  all  sweets  encloses, 

Fair  sweet,  how  I  do  love  thee ! 
I  do  love  thee  as  each  flower 
Loves  the  sun's  life-giving  power ; 

For  dead,  thy  breath  to  life  might  move  me. 


252  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Diaphenia  like  to  all  things  blessed 
When  all  thy  praises  are  expressed, 

Dear  joy,  how  I  do  love  thee! 

As  the  birds  do  love  the  spring, 
Or  the  bees  their  careful  king: 

Then  in  requite,  sweet  virgin,  love  me !  "  * 

This  is  an  outpouring  of  pure  melody  com- 
parable to  a  bird  song.  The  emotion  is  so 
exultant  and  exuberant  that  it  breaks  out  in 
most  exquisitely  irregular  metrical  form.  Try 
to  scan  a  stanza,  and  you  find  dactyls,  trochees, 
spondees  and  even  iambic  feet  in  the  measure, 
poured  out  with  an  abandon;  yet  every  varia- 
tion in  the  measure  quickening  the  movement, 
emphasizing  pregnant  words,  or  otherwise 
adding  to  the  beautiful  artistry  by  which  the 
mood  of  the  poem  finds  expression.  As  we 
have  seen,  classic  scansion  applies  poorly  to 
English  verse ;  but  the  names  of  the  feet  are  of 
no  consequence:  the  significance  is  in  the  de- 
termination of  the  melody  by  the  relation  of 
accented  to  unaccented  syllables. 

*  Constable,  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury,  pp.  9,  10,  Mac- 
millan  &  Co.,  New  York,  1888. 


POETRY  AND  MUSIC  253 

Diapne  /  nia  /  iFke  tfie  /  daffa'down  /  dTlly, 

White  as  tfre  /  suit/  fair  as  tKe  /  lily, 
Heigh  ho,  /  how  I  do  /  love  thee ! 

I  do  /  love  thee  /  as  my  /  lambs 

Are  be  /  lew*!  /  of  tReir  /  dams ; 
How  blest  /  were  T/  if  thou  /  would'st  prove  /  inc. 

Is  not  the  poem  just  a  burst  of  song;  and 
does  not  its  music  waken  in  the  hearer  the  very 
mood  of  springtime,  early  morning  sunlight 
and  the  awakening  of  youthful  love? 

A  greater  example  of  poetry  that  is  pri- 
marily music,  is  given  in  Shelley's  wonderful, 
melodious  lyric, 

To  THE  NIGHT 

"Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray 

Star-inwrought ; 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 


254  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out  : 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 
Come,  long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turn'd  to  his  rest 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried 

Wouldst  thou  me? 

Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd  like  a  noon-tide  bee 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 
Wouldst  thou  me? — and  I  replied 

No,  not  thee ! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon !  " 


POETRY  AND  MUSIC  255 

Here  the  dominant  appeal  of  Shelley  is 
through  music  to  the  emotions,  as  in  his 
Ozymandias  of  Egypt  it  is  through  imagery 
to  the  inner  vision  and  the  intellect.  Is  it  not 
significant  that  one  poet  should  have  written 
both?  In  the  lyric  To  the  Night  the  imagery 
is  vague,  dreamy,  suggestive,  not  intended  to 
produce  clear  pictures  for  the  imagination. 
If  one  attempts  definitely  to  visualize  it,  the 
effect  is  almost  ludicrous.  Try  it  with  the  first 
two  stanzas.  Note,  too,  that  "Day"  is  made 
feminine  in  the  second  stanza,  masculine  in 
the  third!  This  produces  no  jar,  however,  be- 
cause the  Day  is  so  vaguely  personified.  The 
point  is  that  the  value  of  the  imagery  is,  here, 
not  in  giving  definite  pictures  for  the  inner 
vision,  but  in  suggestion  and  color  associated 
with  the  dominant  mood. 

On  the  other  hand,  what  liquid,  limpid  music 
the  poem  is !  The  diction  is  full  of  open  vowel 
sounds:  noon,  soon,  boon,  sweet,  sleep,  mur- 
mured— such  words  give  the  key  to  the  music. 
Two-syllable  and  three-syllable  feet  are  used 
varyingly  in  the  poem,  with  many  dactyls— 
the  most  musical  foot  in  English.  Note  the 
liquid  flow  of  the  first  three  dactylic  lines  in 


256  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

stanza  one,  and  then  the  slowing  down  of  the 
movement  in  the  regular  iambic  lines,  four,  five 
and  six,  with  the  peculiar  impressiveness  of  the 
two  short  lines,  two  and  seven,  made  each  of 
a  dactyl  and  an  accented  syllable.  In  several 
of  the  following  stanzas  these  two  lines  are  still 
briefer,  consisting  of  three  syllables,  two  of 
which  are  accented.  The  student  will  find  it 
worth  while  to  go  through  the  poem  line  by 
line,  noting  the  musical  effects  and  how  they 
are  produced ;  and  let  him  remember  that  there 
are  no  accidents  in  art.  Finally,  the  long  seven 
line  stanza  is  closely  integrated  by  the  almost 
monotonous  music  of  the  rhyme,  the  scheme  of 
which  is  ab  ab  c  cb.  Thus  the  music  returns 
back  into  itself,  closing  the  passage  of  melody 
at  the  end  of  each  stanza. 

Since  the  appeal  of  this  lyric  is  so  domi- 
nately  musical,  let  us  compare  its  effect  with 
that  of  a  cognate  work  in  the  art  of  music,  such 
ajs  a  nocturne  of  Chopin's.  Both  compositions 
present  a  series  of  sound  forms  in  time  succes- 
sion, based  on  the  principles  of  rhythm,  melody 
and  harmony;  but  the  nocturne  is  pure  sound 
forms,  while  the  lyric  associates  with  these 
plastic  forms  for  the  inner  vision.  The  sound 


POETRY  AND  MUSIC  257 

forms  in  both  compositions  give  direct  sensu- 
ous pleasure;  but  this  is  more  powerful  and 
unmixed  in  the  music,  while  the  poem  adds  the 
less  direct  sensuous  delight  in  the  forms  molded 
for  the  imagination.  In  both,  is  the  same  type 
of  aesthetic  satisfaction  in  the  adequacy  and 
harmony  with  which  the  spiritual  content  is 
expressed.  The  lyric,  like  the  nocturne,  tends 
to  waken  a  dominant  mood  in  the  hearer  and, 
beneath  this,  to  carry  him  through  a  series  of 
vaguely  defined  emotional  states.  The  music 
does  this  far  more  powerfully,  however,  with 
more  clearly  defined  emotions;  but  the  poem 
associates,  with  the  feelings  awakened,  a  range 
of  ideas  and  reflections  for  the  intellect,  and  in- 
terprets both  the  thought  and  the  emotion  in 
terms  of  Shelley's  experience  and,  therefore,  of 
the  life  of  man.  Thus  the  poem  unites  some- 
thing of  the  function  of  sculpture  and  painting 
with  something  of  the  function  of  music  in  a 
new  unity,  more  complex  and  many-sided  in  its 
expression  of  the  human  spirit. 

This  is  so  true  that  we  can  find  characteristic 
painter  poets  and  singer  poets — the  one  ap- 
pealing primarily  through  imagery  to  the  inner 
vision,  the  other  through  music  to  the  ear.  All 


258  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

poetry  uses,  of  course,  both  appeals,  and  in 
the  greatest  poetry  they  are  combined  in  har- 
mony; but  now  one,  now  the  other,  may  be 
dominant.  Thus,  with  all  his  melody,  Dante 
visualizes  first  and  sings  afterward;  Milton 
dominantly  makes  sonorous  music,  and  sub- 
ordinately  paints  for  the  imagination.  So 
Browning  is  of  the  seers,  Tennyson  of  the 
singers ;  Shakespeare  primarily  creates  for  the 
imagination  and  intellect,  Spenser  molds  har- 
monious melodies  for  the  ear. 

To  note  how  far  the  contrast  may  go,  take  a 
characteristic  passage  from  the  Faerie  Queene, 
describing  the  descent  of  a  spirit  to  the  house 
of  Morpheus  to  bring  up  a  dream.  Please  note 
how  difficult  the  situation  itself  is  to  imagine, 
while  the  description  of  the  house  of  Morpheus 
is  even  ludicrous  if  you  try,  as  you  should  not, 
to  visualize  it: 

"He,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed  ayre, 
And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and  deepe, 
To  Morpheus  house  doth  hastily  repaire. 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steepe, 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peepe, 
His  dwelling  is ;  there  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  wash,  and  Cynthia  still  doth  steepe 


POETRY  AND  MUSIC  259 

In  silver  deaw  his  ever-drouping  hed, 
Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black  doth 
spred. 

And  unto  Morpheus  comes,  whom  drowned  deepe 
In  drowsie  fit  he  findes ;  of  nothing  he  takes  keepe. 

And,  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 

A    trickling    streame    from    high    rock    tumbling 

downe, 

And  ever-drizling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  caste  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noyse,  nor  peoples  troublous  cryes, 
As  still  are  wont  t'annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might  there  be  heard:  but  carelesse  Quiet  lyes, 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  far  re  from  enimyes."  * 

Try  to  realize  the  imagery,  and  note  its  utter 
inconsistency.  The  dwelling  is  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth,  where  day  never  dawns;  yet  the 
dew  is  falling,  the  sea  washes  the  bed  of  Mor- 
pheus; apparently  the  moon  is  shining  while 
the  rain  is  falling,  a  stream  is  tumbling  down, 
a  murmuring  wind  is  making  a  sound  like  that 
of  swarming  bees!  The  effect  is  ludicrous  if 

*  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  book  I,  Canto  I. 


260  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

one  attempts  to  fuse  the  different  images  in  a 
single  picture;  yet,  here,  that  is  just  what  one 
should  not  do.  Spenser  has  gathered  together 
all  the  images  suggestive  of  sleep,  woven  them 
loosely  together,  and  subordinated  the  whole 
to  the  wonderful  slumbrous  music  of  the  pas- 
sage. Note  the  sound  of  the  words :  lull,  slum- 
ber, streame,  down,  rain,  murmuring,  swarm- 
ing,  sowne,  swowne,  towne — they  are  all  char- 
acteristic of  the  melody  achieved  through  the 
regular,  peacefully  moving  lines  and  the  long, 
close,  harmonious  rhyme  scheme. 

Poetry  is  thus  the  widest  of  the  fine  arts  in 
function,  combining  in  a  new  union  something 
of  the  work  of  the  two  great  contrasting  types 
of  art,  without  usurping  the  place  of  either. 
Hence  poetry  is  the  most  universal  and  many- 
sided  of  the  arts,  in  relation  to  the  human 
spirit  and  in  the  interpretation  of  life.  Lyric 
poetry  can  give  a  series  of  connected  emotions 
and  reflections  revealing  the  life  of  the  per- 
sonal spirit.  The  epic  may  portray  a  varied 
range  of  characters  and  narrate  a  succession  of 
actions,  interpreting  both  in  relation  to  the 
whole  life  of  man.  The  drama  presents  human 
beings  in  action  and  relation,  on  the  stage  of 


POETRY  AND  MUSIC  261 

time,  in  the  whole  working  out  of  character  and 
conduct  in  relation  to  the  laws  of  life. 

Prose,  too,  set  in  a  lower  key  and  there- 
fore with  less  restraint,  can  accomplish  the 
same  ends.  If  less  exalted  in  artistic  form  than 
poetry,  it  is  therefore  often  wider  in  scope. 
The  novel  is  an  epic-drama,  lowered  in  key, 
but  more  complex  in  relation  to  life.  Prose 
has,  too,  its  rhythms  and  melodies:  to  realize 
this,  one  need  but  compare  the  organ-like  music 
of  De  Quincey — where  passage  after  passage, 
by  changing  an  occasional  word,  can  be 
scanned  as  iambic  blank  verse — with  the  music 
of  a  North  Sea  storm  one  hears  in  Carlyle's 
prose,  with  three  accented  monosyllables  fre- 
quently occurring  together.  The  contrast  of 
seer  and  singer  holds  with  prose  writers  as  with 
poets :  compare  the  constant  picture  making  of 
Victor  Hugo,  with  the  subtly  tender  melody— 
the  ximagery  constantly  subordinated — in  the 
exquisite  prose  of  Pierre  Loti.  Thus  all  the 
functions  of  poetry  are  fulfilled  in  prose  as 
well;  and  our  study  has  dealt  chiefly  with 
poetry  only  because  it  is  the  highest  form  of 
literature,  in  which  the  functions  of  the  art 
can  be  most  clearly  seen. 


262  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

It  may  help  to  clarify  and  fix  our  view  of 
the  respective  functions  of  the  great  types  of 
art  if  we  take  a  few  closing  comparisons,  con- 
sidering first  the  treatment  of  the  same  theme 
in  the  different  arts.  In  Fitzgerald's  render- 
ing of  Omar  Khayyam  occur  the  following 
stanzas : 

"I  sent  my  Soul  through  the  Invisible, 
Some  letter  of  that  After-life  to  spell: 

And  by  and  by  my  Soul  returned  to  me, 
And  answered  'I  Myself  am  Heaven  and  Hell:' 

Heaven  but  the  Vision  of  fulfilled  Desire, 
And  Hell  the  Shadow  from  a  Soul  on  fire 

Cast  on  the  Darkness  into  which  Ourselves, 
So  late  emerged  from,  shall  so  soon  expire."  * 

Vedder  has  illustrated  these  on  one  page. 
Above,  at  the  left,  he  has  drawn  a  radiant  face 
on  a  background  of  light;  below,  at  the  right, 
a  face  of  agony  on  a  background  of  flame  and 
darkness;  between  them  is  a  figure  represent- 
ing the  soul,  with  the  symbolic  swirl  of  life. 
The  conceptions  of  the  faces  of  joy  and  pain 

*  Rubdiydt  of  Omar  Khayyam,  Fitzgerald's  translation, 
stanzas  LXVI  and  LXVII. 


POETRY  AND  MUSIC  263 

are  given  directly  through  the  sense  of  sight 
and  burned  in  on  the  imagination  with  a  vital 
intensity  poetry  cannot  equal. 

What  could  music  give  of  the  same  theme? 
The  answer  is  found  in  Liza  Lehmann's  In  a 
Persian  Garden — not  to  look  further.  Music 
can  give  the  mood  of  heaven  and  the  mood  of 
hell,  awakening  the  emotional  state  we  asso- 
ciate with  the  one  and  the  other  conception, 
with  a  power  unequaled  in  any  other  art. 

The  two  stanzas  of  the  poem  give  the  con- 
ceptions, less  powerfully  and  directly  for  the 
eye  than  in  the  drawing;  unite  with  these  the 
direct  sensuous  and  emotional  appeal  of  the 
grave  music  of  the  poem,  less  impressively  than 
in  the  art  of  music;  and  add  the  interpretation 
of  the  whole  in  terms  of  human  thought  and 
feeling. 

Compare  the  fifth  canto  of  Dante's  Inferno 
with  Watts's  painting  of  Paolo  and  Francesca, 
and  with  the  love  music  of  Tristan  und  Isolde. 
Watts  paints  the  lovers  clinging  together, 
swirling  onward  on  the  black  air  of  hell.  The 
two  faces  and  bodies,  in  the  eternal  instant,  are 
given  with  a  direct  smiting  power  no  other  art 
can  equal;  yet  our  feelings  in  the  presence  of 


264  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

the  painting  are  not  determined  by  its  concep- 
tions, but  by  our  experience  and  knowledge 
of  life. 

The  love  music  of  Tristan  und  Isolde  sweeps 
us  on  to  the  bosom  of  the  sea  of  emotion,  melts 
us  with  the  tenderness  of  love  and  longing, 
clutches  us  with  the  mood  of  Fate,  with  a  com- 
manding power  no  other  art  can  equal;  yet 
many  love-stories  besides  Isolde's  and  Fran- 
cesca's  might  be  associated  with  the  music. 

In  Dante's  canto  the  twro  lovers  are  painted 
sweeping  toward  him  on  the  purple  air.  They 
stop  at  the  call  of  love,  and  Francesca  moans 
out  her  story.  The  whole  narration  is  given. 
The  verse  first  pains  with  discordant  words  and 
bitter  images,  and  then  sobs  with  the  music  of 
Francesca's  sighed-out  story,  as  though  with 
a  moan  of  the  universe  over  the  bitterness  of 
fate.  The  whole  life  story  is  given,  the  music 
of  the  verse  is  associated  with  it ;  while,  through 
the  effect  upon  Dante's  thought  and  feeling, 
the  meaning  of  the  whole  in  relation  to  human 
life  is  interpreted. 

If  the  student  cares  to  go  further,  let  him 
compare  Michael  Angelo's  frescoes  in  the  Sis- 
tine  Chapel  with  Dante's  Divine  Comedy,  and 
these  with  a  fugue  of  Bach's  and  a  symphony 


POETRY  AND  MUSIC  265 

of  Beethoven's;  or  let  him  compare  Cormon's 
Cain  with  Wagner's  music  to  the  Gotterddm- 
merung,  and  these  with  Shakespeare's  King 
Lear. 

In  each  instance  the  spatial  arts  are  most 
powerful  in  rendering  conceptions  in  statical 
form  for  the  eye  and  the  imagination;  music 
excels  all  other  arts  in  the  sweeping  appeal 
through  dynamic  forms  to  the  ear  and  the  emo- 
tions; while  poetry  unites  something  of  both 
types  of  appeal  in  a  new  complex  whole,  in- 
terpreted in  terms  of  human  thought  and 
feeling. 

With  this  differentiation  in  function  it  is 
impossible  to  say  that  any  one  art  is  the  high- 
est: each  is  supreme  in  its  own  way  and  in  its 
own  service  to  the  spirit  of  man.  One  may 
prefer  roses  to  lilies,  or  violets  to  roses,  but 
one  cannot  say  that  any  one  of  these  is  the  most 
beautiful  of  flowers.  So  one  may  be  drawn 
most  deeply  by  a  particular  art,  but  one  must 
recognize  that  this  means  only  a  special  respon- 
siveness to  the  function  of  that  art,  and  not  at 
all  that  the  art  is  to  be  ranked  above  the  others 
objectively.  Each  is  highest  in  its  own  field, 
and  all  are  needed  to  express  and  interpret 
fully  the  life  of  man. 


"We  leave  a  grand  musical  performance  with  our  feelings 
excited,  the  reading  of  a  noble  poem  with  a  quickened  imagina- 
tion, a  beautiful  statue  or  building  with  an  awakened  under- 
standing; but  a  man  would  not  choose  an  opportune  moment 
who  attempted  to  invite  us  to  abstract  thinking  after  a  high 
musical  enjoyment,  or  to  attend  to  a  prosaic  affair  of  common 
life  after  a  high  poetical  enjoyment,  or  to  kindle  our  imagina- 
tion and  astonish  our  feelings  directly  after  inspecting  a  fine 
statue  or  edifice.  The  reason  of  this  is,  that  music,  by  its 
matter,  even  when  most  spiritual,  presents  a  greater  affinity 
with  the  senses  than  is  permitted  by  aesthetic  liberty;  it  is 
because  even  the  most  happy  poetry,  having  for  its  medium, 
the  arbitrary  and  contingent  play  of  the  imagination,  always 
shares  in  it  more  than  the  intimate  necessity  of  the  really 
beautiful  allows;  it  is  because  the  best  sculpture  touches  on 
severe  science  by  what  is  determinate  in  its  conception.  How- 
ever, these  particular  affinities  are  lost  in  proportion  as  the 
works  of  these  three  kinds  of  art  rise  to  a  greater  elevation, 
and  it  is  a  natural  and  necessary  consequence  of  their  per- 
fection, that,  without  confounding  their  objective  limits,  the 
different  arts  come  to  resemble  each  other  more  and  more,  in 
the  action  which  they  exercise  on  the  mind.  At  its  highest 
degree  of  ennobling,  music  ought  to  become  a  form,  and  act 
on  us  with  the  calm  power  of  an  antique  statue;  in  its  most 
elevated  perfection,  the  plastic  art  ought  to  become  music  and 
move  us  by  the  immediate  action  exercised  on  the  mind  by 
the  senses;  in  its  most  complete  development,  poetry  ought 
both  to  stir  us  powerfully  like  music  and  like  plastic  art  to 
surround  us  with  a  peaceful  light.  In  each  art,  the  perfect 
style  consists  exactly  in  knowing  how  to  remove  specific  limits, 
while  sacrificing  at  the  same  time  the  particular  advantages 
of  the  art,  and  to  give  it  by  a  wise  use  of  what  belongs  to  it 
specially  a  more  general  character." — Schiller,  Essays  ^Estheti- 
cal  and  Philosophical,  pp.  90,  91. 


266 


CHAPTER    XV 
THE    UNITY    OF    THE    ARTS 

IN  striving  to  see  clearly  the  specific  func- 
tion of  each  of  the  arts,  we  must  beware 
of  forgetting  that  the  human  spirit  is,  after 
all,  a  unity,  and  therefore  every  expression  of 
it  is  a  unity.  Thus  whatever  element  may  be 
dominant  in  a  work  of  art,  the  appeal  is  to  the 
whole  human  spirit,  so  that  what  is  explicit 
and  definite  in  one  type  of  art  will  be  found 
to  be  implicit  and  subordinate  in  the  contrast- 
ing type.  In  sculpture  and  painting  we  have 
found  the  conceptions  given,  the  emotions  asso- 
ciated by  the  observer;  in  music,  the  direct 
appeal  is  to  the  emotions,  while  the  intellectual 
reflections  are  associated  by  the  hearer;  in 
poetry,  both  conceptions  and  emotions  are  ex- 
pressed in  harmony.  In  the  spatial  arts,  form 
is  statical  and  relatively  permanent ;  in  music, 
the  sound  forms  are  given  in  a  dynamic  and 
evanescent  series;  in  poetry,  the  forms  occur 
in  a  dynamic  but  permanent  series.  All  the 

267 


268  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

arts  give  sensuous  pleasure:  in  sculpture  and 
painting  this  is  through  the  physical  vision ;  in 
music,  by  the  sense  of  hearing;  poetry  appeals 
to  both  sight  and  hearing,  but  less  immediately, 
and,  with  vision  at  least,  only  through  the 
imagination.  All  the  arts  give  aesthetic  satis- 
faction and  from  the  same  cause — the  adequate 
and  harmonious  expression,  in  different  ways, 
of  the  spiritual  content  in  appropriate  form. 

Thus  the  same  elements  are  present  in  some 
measure  in  all  the  arts.  Form  in  sculpture 
and  painting  is  represented  in  music  by  rhythm 
and  harmony,  in  poetry,  by  the  meter,  the 
stanza-form  and  the  organization  of  thought. 
Color  in  the  spatial  arts  may  be  compared  to 
melody  and  timbre  in  music,  to  modulations 
of  the  voice,  accent,  rhyme  and  the  melody  of 
words  in  poetry.  Such  comparisons  are  se- 
ductive and  may  easily  be  carried  too  far — 
to  the  point  of  obscuring  the  unique  function 
of  each  art.  They  help  us  to  see,  however,  that 
while  each  art  fulfills  its  own  function,  un- 
equaled  by  any  other,  there  is  great  unity 
among  the  arts,  and  all  alike  appeal  to  the 
whole  spirit  of  man. 

There  is  deep  significance  in  the  fact  that 


THE  UNITY  OF  THE  ARTS  269       / 

all  the  arts  are  alike  expressions  of  the  human  ^ 
spirit.  Plato,  toward  the  close  of  the  Repub- 
lic, in  one  of  those  errors,  as  illuminating  as 
his  insights,  argues  that  art  is  but  "an  imita- 
tion of  an  imitation."  *  The  abstract  idea,  he 
holds,  is  the  reality.  The  form  in  nature  is 
but  an  imperfect  copy  of  this ;  while  the  artist's 
imitation  of  nature  is  doubly  removed  from 
reality.  So  Homer  and  similar  artists,  Plato 
holds,  apparently  with  some  reluctance,  must  be 
excluded  from  the  ideal  state.  Sound  enough 
the  view  is  if  art  be  merely  imitation ;  but  how 
if  we  recognize  it  to  be  creative  expression 
through  which  alone  the  idea  can  be  realized? 
The  intellect  must  strive  for  abstract  concep- 
tions, in  the  effort  to  discover  the  unifying  type 
behind  the  individuals  given  in  nature;  but 
the  abstract  concept  is  barren  until  it  is  given 
creative  expression  in  some  concrete  form.  We 
strive  to  go  beyond  men  and  arrive  at  the  ab- 
stract conception,  man;  but  this  idea  is  vitally 
realized  only  when  it  is  incarnated  in  a  Faust, 
a  Hamlet  or  an  Adam  on  the  Sistine  Chapel 
ceiling.  Plato's  own  artistic  portrayal  of  the 
one  good  man,  Socrates,  in  the  Apology,  Crito 

*  Plato,  Republic,  book  X. 


270  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

and  Plicedo,  is  vastly  more  effective  than  his 
relatively  barren  "pure  idea  of  the  Good."  So 
Goethe's  Helena  means  far  more  than  any 
abstract  conception  of  beauty;  Browning's 
Caponsacchi,  than  any  idea  of  manhood;  the 
women  of  Shakespeare,  than  any  theoretic  ideal 
of  womanhood.  There  is  a  fundamental  quar- 
rel here  between  the  metaphysicians  and  the 
artists:  the  one  seeking  truth  in  intellectual 
abstractions  from  life,  the  other  striving  to 
attain  it  in  creative  expression  in  living  form. 
I  am  with  the  artists  in  this  conflict.  The  only 
road  to  the  infinite  is  the  finite ;  the  ideal  is  real 
only  when  the  effort  is  made  to  express  it  in 
some  concrete  action.  Thus  the  glory  of  art 
is  that  it  is  not  imitation,  but  creative  expres- 
sion in  concrete  form,  through  which  alone 
great  ideals  and  conceptions  can  be  achieved 
for  the  mind  and  spirit  of  man.  The  paradox 
is  that  Plato — the  poet  among  philosophers — 
fulfills  in  the  Dialogues  the  very  function  of 
the  art  he  discredits  and  fails  to  understand, 
in  that  he  presents  truth  in  the  form  and  color 
of  life,  from  the  view-points  of  the  minds  be- 
holding it. 

The  unity  of  the  arts  is  evident,  not  only  in 


THE  UNITY  OF  THE  ARTS  271 


the  elements  •eemmeff  to  them  all,  but  in  the 
way  they  can  be  combined  into  composite  arts, 
more  complex  in  appeal.  Let  it  be  noted  that, 
wherever  such  combination  occurs,  each  art 
must  concede  something,  now  one  sacrificing 
more,  now  another.  Song  is  an  excellent  ex- 
ample of  composite  art,  where  music  and 
poetry  are  united  in  a  new  appeal.  Usually 
poetry  makes  the  sacrifice  in  current  singing, 
for  the  words  are  so  mumbled  that  they  might 
as  well  be  given  in  a  foreign  language  —  as  is 
frequently  done.  In  certain  forms  of  church 
music,  on  the  other  hand,  the  words  are  chant- 
ed with  reasonable  clearness,  while  the  music 
is  subordinated. 

Where  song  is  at  its  best,  both  poetry  and 
music  are  given  so  that  the  ideas  of  the  poem 
are  definitely  associated  with  the  series  of  emo- 
tional states  aroused  by  the  music.  One  of  the 
most  perfect  examples  of  this  composite  art 
is  Schumann's  wonderful  song-cycle,  Frauen- 
liebe  und  Leben,  written  to  the  poem  of 
Chamisso.  Here  the  critical  moments  of 
the  woman's  life  —  the  courtship,  betrothal, 
wedding,  the  child's  coming,  the  separation 
through  death  —  are  taken,  beautifully  ren- 


272  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

dered  in  the  poetry,  while  the  interpretation 
by  the  music  is  in  simply  perfect  harmony. 
Such  a  composite  art  goes  beyond  either  of  its 
components  in  appeal,  yet  the  attention  is 
divided,  so  that  even  here  each  art  must  sacri- 
fice something  of  its  independent  effect.  Song, 
let  it  be  noted,  is  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  pur- 
poses of  religion,  since  the  emotional  appeal 
of  music  may  put  the  hearer  into  an  earnestly 
receptive  mood,  while  the  poem  or  words  sung 
may,  at  the  same  time,  give  definite  ethical  and 
religious  conceptions. 

The  acted  drama  is  a  still  more  composite 
art.  Poetry  is  present  in  the  lines  spoken, 
painting  in  the  scenic  background,  while  sculp- 
ture is  carried  into  living  action  in  the  poses 
and  movements  of  the  actors.  The  result  is  a 
most  absorbing  complex  appeal.  The  need  of 
the  modern  spirit  has  carried  us  one  step  fur- 
ther. The  most  remarkable  of  all  composite 
arts  is  the  music  drama  as  developed  by 
Wagner.  Here  are  present  all  the  arts  com- 
bined in  the  drama,  with  music  in  addition, 
making  the  most  powerful  appeal  of  all.  Thus 
sculpture,  painting,  poetry,  dramatic  action, 
orchestric  dancing  and  music  all  unite  in  this 


THE  UNITY  OF  THE  ARTS  273 

complex  art  in  one  manifold  appeal  to  the 
whole  spirit  of  man. 

Perhaps  the  study  we  have  made  may  help 
us  to  solve  a  long-continued  controversy  re- 
garding the  music  drama.  Wagner  held  that 
in  it  poetry  and  dramatic  action  constituted 
the  center,  while  music  was  associated;  most 
of  his  enthusiastic  disciples  have  held,  and  still 
hold,  that  music  is  the  center,  with  the  other 
arts  subordinated  to  it.  Now,  chronologically, 
vague  states  of  feeling  precede  clear  intelli- 
gence; but,  logically,  perception  or  conception 
always  precedes  emotion.  Dante  and  Spinoza 
were  right  in  alike  holding  this.  Definitely  to 
love  or  hate  anything,  we  must  first  perceive 
or  conceive  it.  On  the  other  hand,  while  the 
emotional  "affect"  follows  the  perception  or 
conception,  it  is  far  more  deeply  moving.  Thus 
while  poetry  and  dramatic  action  are  logically 
prior  in  the  music  drama,  and  therefore  cen- 
tral, as  Wagner  taught,  the  musical  effect  is 
vastly  more  powerful.  This  is  so  true  that 
when  one  is  intimately  familiar  with  a  Wag- 
nerian  opera,  one  often  prefers  to  close  one's 
eyes,  and  hear  the  music,  undistracted  by  ap- 
peals to  the  vision. 


274  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Just  because  the  emotional  appeal  is  the 
most  moving,  music  generally  loses  less  than 
the  other  arts  when  in  combination  with  them. 
Does  this  not  mean  that,  whatever  art  is  cen- 
tral in  the  combination,  music  will  be  dom- 
inant? If  so,  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  what 
will  be  possible  in  "the  music  of  the  future," 
or  rather,  the  composite  art  of  the  future. 
It  is  certain  that  each  art  must  sacrifice  some- 
thing when  in  combination  % with  others,  but 
when  music  is  constantly  present,  there  must 
probably  be  a  greater  subordination  of  the 
other  arts  to  music  than  Wagner  thought 
necessary. 

Let  me  add  that  the  music  drama  is  an  in- 
teresting illustration  of  the  law  of  evolution 
from  a  homogeneous  basis,  through  differentia- 
tion, to  unity  on  a  higher  plane.  Out  of  the 
generic  basis  in  a  single  act  of  early  Greek  wor- 
ship the  fine  arts  have  been  severally  devel- 
oped, to  be  brought  again  into  composite  union 
in  the  music  drama — the  art  peculiarly  expres- 
sive of  the  complex  needs  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion. There  is  ample  room  for  all  the  arts 
and  for  all  possible  combinations  of  them,  in 
answering  the  manifold  needs  of  the  human 
spirit. 


"You  do  ill  if  you  praise,  but  worse  if  you  censure,  what 
you  do  not  rightly  understand." — Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci's  Note-Books,  arranged  by  Edward  McCurdy, 
p.  58. 

"It  is  therefore  not  going  far  enough  to  say  that  the 
light  of  the  understanding  only  deserves  respect  when  it  re- 
acts on  the  character;  to  a  certain  extent  it  is  from  the 
character  that  this  light  proceeds;  for  the  road  that  termi- 
nates in  the  head  must  pass  through  the  heart.  Accordingly, 
the  most  pressing  need  of  the  present  time  is  to  educate  the 
sensibility,  because  it  is  the  means,  not  only  to  render  effica- 
cious in  practice  the  improvement  of  ideas,  but  to  call  this 
improvement  into  existence." — Schiller,  Essays  ffisthetical  and 
Philosophical,  p.  48. 

"It  is  our  actors,  singers,  and  musicians  upon  whose  own 
instincts  all  hope  for  the  attainment  of  artistic  objects  must 
rest,  even  when  these  objects  themselves  may  be  incompre- 
hensible to  them.  For  they  must  be  the  ones  to  whom  these 
objects  will  most  speedily  become  clear,  as  soon  as  their  own 
artistic  instincts  are  put  upon  the  right  path  toward  their 
recognition." — Wagner,  Art  Life  and  Theories,  p.  231. 


276 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  DANGERS  OF  ART 

ART  can  readily  be  misused,  and  there  are 
certain  dangers  even  in  great  art,  in- 
separable from  its  very  nature  and  the 
methods  it  employs.  Throughout  our  dis- 
cussion the  element  of  sensuous  beauty  has 
been  emphasized;  it  is  deeply  significant,  but 
as  a  means  rather  than  an  end.  The  appeal 
of  all  art  is  to  the  senses,  but  through  the 
senses  to  the  souL  If  then  the  artist  forgets 
the  soul  and  appeals  only  to  the  senses,  the 
danger  is  that  the  sensuous  may  pass  over  into 
the  sensual,  art  degenerating  into  a  mere  pan- 
dering to  the  caprices  of  the  sense  life.  Sy- 
monds  recognized  this  in  a  pregnant  passage 
in  his  discussion  of  the  Italian  renaissance: 

"On  the  very  threshold  of  the  matter  I  am  bound 
to  affirm  my  conviction  that  the  spiritual  purists 
of  all  ages — the  Jews,  the  iconoclasts  of  Byzantium, 
Savonarola,  and  our  Puritan  ancestors — were  jus- 

277 


278  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

tified  in  their  mistrust  of  plastic  art.  The  spirit  of 
Christianity  and  the  spirit  of  figurative  art  are  op- 
posed, not  because  such  art  is  immoral,  but  because 
it  cannot  free  itself  from  sensuous  associations."  * 

The  only  fault  here  is  in  limiting  the  state- 
ment to  plastic  art,  but  the  danger  is  clearly 
evident  there.  It  is  possible  to  make  of  a 
painting  a  mere  debauch  of  color,  of  a  partially 
draped  statue,  a  wholly  sensual  appeal.  Goethe 
has  given  a  most  illuminating  study  of  the 
problem  in  the  Witches'  Kitchen  scene  in 
Faust.  The  Vision  in  the  Mirror,  beheld  by 
Faust,  is  the  representation  of  what  Goethe 
regards  as  the  most  beautiful  form  in  nature 
—the  ideal  woman  body  and  face.  It  appears 
in  the  Witches'  Kitchen  because  it  is  the  sub- 
limation of  that  of  which  the  apish  mummery 
of  the  scene  is  the  degeneration,  art  appealing 
only  through  the  medium  of  the  senses  to  the 
soul.  Faust  can  see  the  Vision  only  as  he  stands 
reverently  away  from  the  mirror;  when  he 
steps  forward  and  attempts  to  grasp  the  form, 
the  Vision  fades.  The  same  truth  is  expressed 
in  a  frank  saying  often  heard  in  the  Paris 

*Symonds,   Renaissance   in  Italy,    The   Fine   Arts,   p.   24, 
Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1888. 


THE  DANGERS  OF  ART  279 

studios:  "If  you  want  to  be  an  artist,  you 
must  hang  up  your  passions  with  your  hat  and 
coat  before  you  enter  the  studio."  That  is,  if 
you  want  to  be  an  artist,  you  must  have  such 
impersonal  reverence  for  beauty  for  its  own 
sake  as  to  inhibit  the  desire  for  egoistic  pos- 
session. Thus  the  purity  of  a  statue,  or  of  the 
figures  of  a  painting,  is  not  a  question  of  dra- 
pery, but  of  the  purity  of  the  artist's  mind. 
It  is  just  here  that  the  discussion  of  the  nude 
in  art  has  gone  wrong.  A  partially  draped 
figure  may  be  far  more  sensually  seductive 
than  one  entirely  nude,  as  purveyors  of  vice 
well  understand.  There  are  two  kinds  of 
prudery — the  one  of  vice,  and  the  other  of 
ignorance;  and  the  latter  is  only  less  harmful 
than  the  former.  It  is  the  prudery  of  igno- 
rance, rampant  in  mediocrity,  that  mutilates 
the  classic  statues  of  a  museum,  excludes 
Longfellow's  Building  of  the  Ship  from  the 
public  schools  of  a  great  city,  closes  the  doors 
of  the  theater  to  Bernard  Shaw's  Widowers' 
Houses,  while  opening  them  wide  to  salacious 
vaudeville,  and  sends  a  "breeches-painter"  up 
to  deface  the  figures  in  Michael  Angelo's  Last 
Judgment.  A  pure-minded  artist  cannot 


280  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

make  an  unchaste  statue,  a  sensually  degraded 
artist  cannot  carve  a  pure  one. 

What  is  true  of  the  artist  is  true,  only  in 
lesser  measure,  of  the  student.  His  mind  must 
be  clean;  he,  too,  must  have  impersonal  rever- 
ence for  beauty,  to  respond  aright  to  art,  other- 
wise he  may  take  a  mere  swinish  pleasure  in 
even  noble  productions.  These  dangers  are, 
however,  only  the  inevitable  corollary  of  the 
peculiar  greatness  of  sculpture  and  painting 
— the  power  to  appeal  directly  to  the  physical 
vision,  and  through  this  to  bring  home  concep- 
tions to  the  imagination  and  the  intellect  with 
a  concrete  effectiveness  unequaled  in  other 
types  of  art. 

Like  sculpture  and  painting,  music  makes 
its  appeal  to  the  soul  only  through  the  medium 
of  the  senses,  and  like  them  it  may  forget  the 
soul  and  appeal  only  to  the  sense,  in  which 
case  it  degenerates.  There  is  a  type  of  merely 
sensuous  music  that  is  not  much  above  the 
plane  of  the  beer  drinking  and  gormandizing 
to  which  it  is  often  subordinated.  Do  not  mis- 
understand me:  sensuous  pleasure,  in  right 
relation,  is  itself  worth  while;  properly  con- 
trolled beer  drinking  may  be  a  sound  relaxa- 


THE  DANGERS  OF  ART  281 

tion;  still,  music  on  that  plane  is  scarcely  the 
highest  art,  and  indulged  in  to  excess  may  in- 
toxicate like  the  beer. 

Even  music  that  is  sound  and  true  art  in- 
volves a  special  danger,  owing  to  the  fact 
that  it  appeals  so  powerfully  to  the  emotions. 
Emotion  is  the  energy  of  life;  the  function 
of  reason  is  regulative  among  desires,  giving 
direction  and  control.  Emotion  is  steam  in 
the  hoiler  of  life  that  sends  the  engine  over 
the  road  of  progress;  reason  is  the  controll- 
ing engineer  with  his  hand  upon  the  throttle. 
No  matter  how  well-trained  the  engineer  and 
how  perfect  the  machinery,  if  there  is  no  steam 
in  the  boiler  the  engine  goes  nowhere.  Thus 
no  man  ever  accomplished  anything  who  did 
not  love  something,  hate  something  or  desire 
something.  On  the  other  hand,  uncontrolled 
emotion  means  a  wild  riot  of  loosened  ener- 
gies, as  a  runaway  locomotive  goes  to  smash. 

Music  constantly  stimulates  and  refines  the 
emotional  sensibility,  and  this  is  good  or  bad 
according  as  it  is,  or  is  not,  balanced  by  strong 
self-direction  and  self-control.  Where  there  is 
this  strong  directive  center  of  character,  the 
greater  the  emotional  sensitiveness,  the  wider 


282  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

and  deeper  is  the  response  to  nature  and  life. 
Where  that  center  is  wanting,  the  refining  of 
the  sensibilities  makes  one  an  ^Eolian  harp, 
vibrating  to  every  wind  of  beauty  and  breath 
of  desire,  until  in  the  end  one  becomes  a  bundle 
of  jaded  nerves,  giving  no  longer  music  but 
discord  in  response  to  the  appeal  of  life.  Con- 
sider the  fate  of  that  strangely  gifted  poet  who 
wrote : 

"To  drift  with  every  passion  till  my  soul 
Is  a  stringed  lute  on  which  all  winds  can  play, 
Is  it  for  this  that  I  have  given  away 
Mine  ancient  wisdom,  and  austere  control  ?  "  * 

The  sonnet  beginning  with  these  lines  reads 
like  the  cry  of  a  lost  soul — lost,  if  the  state- 
ment be  personal,  because  emotion  was  devel- 
oped without  reason,  and  sensitiveness  was  re- 
fined without  balancing  self-control. 

This  form  of  degeneration  comes  only  in  the 
most  highly  developed  civilization.  Art  is  not 
to  blame  for  it,  but  the  wrong  use  of  any  one 
of  the  arts  may  lead  to  it ;  while,  for  the  reasons 
given,  the  danger  is  more  subtle  in  music  than 

*  Oscar  Wilde,  Sonnet  prefixed  to  the  volume  of  lyric 
poems. 


THE  DANGERS  OF  ART  283 

elsewhere.  It  finds  occasional  pathetic  illus- 
tration in  the  lives  of  musicians  of  a  certain 
type.  Great  execution  in  music  is  creation; 
but  below  that  plane  a  high  degree  of  good 
execution  is  possible  through  technical  skill 
combined  with  sensitive  receptivity.  In  such 
a  case  the  musician  may  lend  himself,  as  a  fine 
instrument,  to  the  genius  of  the  composer,  so 
that  the  music  is  recreated  through  the  artist 
executing.  The  result  is  a  continual  refining 
of  the  sensuous  and  emotional  life,  and,  where 
the  personality  is  of  the  receptive  type  indi- 
cated, unless  there  is  a  balancing  cultivation 
of  strong  self-direction,  grave  danger  is  pres- 
ent of  a  subtle  but  terrible  form  of  moral  de- 
terioration. Instances  of  it  are  too  numerous 
to  require  specific  mention. 

The  same  truth  holds  for  the  one  who  appre- 
ciates. He,  too,  needs  to  balance  the  sensuous 
and  emotional  appeal  of  music  by  deliberately 
cultivating  self-control  and  by  seeking  oppor- 
tunities for  vigorous,  self-expressive  action.  It 
is  well,  also,  to  choose  with  some  care  one's 
companions  in  hearing  even  great  music;  for 
the  effect  of  it  is  to  render  one,  for  the  time 
being,  more  sensitive  to  any  emotional  appeal, 


284  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

whether  for  good  or  evil.  Instances  can  be 
given  of  those  who  have  gone  down  as  a  result, 
indirectly,  of  the  sensuous  and  emotional  in- 
toxication produced  by  Wagner  operas;  but 
the  blame  is  not  upon  Wagner  or  his  music. 
These  dangers,  however,  are  but  the  inevitable 
corollary  of  the  supreme  power  music  possesses 
—the  power  to  appeal  through  the  sense  of 
hearing  to  the  emotional  life,  and  to  sweep  one 
on  to  the  sea  of  feeling  as  can  no  other  art. 

Like  the  other  arts,  poetry,  too,  has  the  dan- 
gers correlative  to  its  functions.  Since  the 
sensuous  appeal  to  the  eye  is  less  direct  than 
in  sculpture  and  painting,  and  to  the  ear  less 
powerful  than  in  music,  there  is  not  so  much 
danger  of  appealing  only  to  the  senses  in 
poetry.  This  happens,  however,  as  in  the 
merely  sensuous  beauty  of  certain  poems  of 
Oscar  Wilde  and  Paul  Verlaine.  The  vicious 
effect  here  is  not  so  great  as  in  the  other  arts; 
but  just  because  poetry  has  more  complex  re- 
lation to  the  human  spirit,  and  goes  further  in 
the  interpretation  of  life,  it  involves  deeper 
dangers.  Literature*  may  pander  to  decadent 
taste  in  lyric,  drama  or  novel;  it  may  dress 
vice  in  attractive  garments  so  that  it  becomes 


THE  DANGERS  OF  ART  285 

dangerously  seductive;  it  may  portray  dis- 
eased phases  of  life  out  of  sound  relation  to  the 
whole.  Thus  upon  the  whole  personality,  in- 
cluding both  the  emotions  and  the  intellect,  the 
vicious  effect  may  be  produced. 

Even  when  literature  is  itself  sane,  it  may 
still  be  misused.  It  is  possible  to  shed  so  many 
tears  over  the  imaginary  characters  of  the 
drama  or  novel  that  one's  eyes  are  dry  toward 
the  same  tragedy  in  the  street  behind  us  or  the 
house  next  door.  The  need  is  always  to  re- 
turn from  the  symbol  of  art  to  the  life  sym- 
bolized; then  only  does  art  become  a  doorway 
to  the  deeper  appreciation  of  life.  Here,  as 
with  the  other  arts,  the  danger  is  merely  the 
other  side  of  the  supreme  power  of  the  art  in 
expressing  and  interpreting  life. 


"It  is  important,  at  the  present  time,  to  bear  in  mind  that 
the  human  soul  has  still  greater  need  of  the  ideal  than  of 
the  real. 

It  is  by  the  real  that  we  exist;  it  is  by  the  ideal  that  we 
live.  Would  you  realize  the  difference?  Animals  exist,  man 
lives." — Victor  Hugo,  William  Shakespeare,  p.  295. 

"Beauty  results  from  the  harmony  between  spirit  and  sense; 
it  addresses  all  the  faculties  of  man,  and  can  only  be  appre- 
ciated if  a  man  employs  fully  all  his  strength.  He  must 
bring  to  it  an  open  sense,  a  broad  heart,  a  spirit  full  of 
freshness.  All  a  man's  nature  must  be  on  the  alert,  and  this 
is  not  the  case  with  those  divided  by  abstraction,  narrowed 
by  formulas,  enervated  by  application." — Schiller,  Essays 
^Esthetical  and  Philosophical,  p.  330. 

"That  which  distinguishes  genius,  and  should  be  the  stand- 
ard for  judging  it,  is  the  height  to  which  it  is  able  to  soar 
when  it  is  in  the  proper  mood  and  finds  a  fitting  occasion — 
a  height  always  out  of  the  reach  of  ordinary  talent." — 
Schopenhauer,  The  Art  of  Literature,  p.  88. 

"The  capacity  of  the  sublime  is  one  of  the  noblest  apti- 
tudes of  man.  Beauty  is  useful,  but  does  not  go  beyond  man. 
The  sublime  applies  to  the  pure  spirit.  The  sublime  must 
be  joined  to  the  beautiful  to  complete  the  (esthetic  education, 
and  to  enlarge  man's  heart  beyond  the  sensuous  world." — 
Schiller,  Essays  synthetical  and  Philosophical)  p.  141. 


286 


CHAPTER    XVII 

BEAUTY   AND   THE   LIFE   OF   APPRE- 
CIATION 

IT  is  because  art  appeals  to  the  whole  hu- 
man spirit — senses,  imagination,  emotions, 
intellect,  that  it  is  so  difficult  to  translate 
into  terms  of  the  understanding,  as  has  been 
evident  in  all  our  discussion.  We  appreciate 
much  that  we  never  understand.  It  is  possible 
to  respond  deeply  to  the  appeal  of  music,  and 
yet  be  quite  in  ignorance  of  principles  of  mel- 
ody and  harmony.  One  may  enjoy  the  beauty 
of  a  painting,  with  no  knowledge  of  the  tech- 
nique by  which  it  is  produced.  So  one  may 
appreciate  a  friend,  without  having  an  intellec- 
tual judgment  of  his  conduct  and  character. 
Indeed,  as  our  previous  studies  have  shown, 
too  much  analysis  with  the  intellect  may  even 
stand  in  the  way  of  appreciation,  as  criticism 
and  creation  rarely  go  together. 

Much  of  our  happiness  is  in  appreciation; 
imagine  life  denuded  of  it:  how  intolerably 

287 


288  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

barren  our  existence  would  be!  Thus  life  is 
always  in  advance  of  the  understanding:  in  a 
profoundly  true  sense  we  are  better  than  we 
know.  First  we  live,  and  then  we  think  about 
it,  haltingly  translating  our  experience  into  a 
theory  of  the  world.  Thus  the  major  develop- 
ment of  Greek  poetry  came  before  any  one  had 
scanned  a  foot  or  named  a  measure ;  and  Greek 
character  had  reached  its  fruition  and  begun 
to  decline,  before  Aristotle  analyzed  it  into  its 
elements  and  constructed  them  into  his  theory 
of  ethics.  Faith  is  thus  "the  substance  of 
things  hoped  for,"  that  is,  their  realization  in 
life,  before  we  can  put  them  into  our  philoso- 
phy. Many  persons,  caught  in  some  eddy  of 
thought,  feel  compelled  to  reject  all  belief  in 
the  things  of  the  spirit,  and  yet  go  on  serenely 
living  to  them  all  the  time. 

Thomas  Hill  Green,  whose  philosophy  re- 
ceived popular  exposition  some  time  ago 
through  Mrs.  Ward's  Robert  Elsmere,  point- 
ed this  paradox.*  He  spoke  of  the  fact  that 
many  earnest  men  these  days  feel  compelled 
to  accept  the  philosophy  of  naturalism,  as  the 

*  Introduction  to  Prolegomena  to  Ethics,  Clarendon  Press, 
Oxford,  1890. 


THE  LIFE  OF  APPRECIATION  289 

whole  truth  of  things,  and  yet  go  on  finding 
personal  consolation  in  the  poetry  of  Brown- 
ing and  Tennyson — poetry  based  on  the  very 
ideas,  the  philosophy  of  naturalism  wholly  re- 
jects. Obviously  we  must  give  up  the  poetry, 
abandon  the  theory,  or  else  come  to  a  plane  of 
thought  where  the  seemingly  opposed  ele- 
ments can  be  united. 

This  life  of  appreciation,  let  it  be  noted,  is 
just  as  real  as  the  life  of  the  understanding. 
Wordsworth,  who  stands  beside  the  lake, 
watching  the  wealth  of  golden  daffodils  nod- 
ding in  the  breeze,  is  just  as  truly  related  to 
that  aspect  of  nature,  as  the  scientist  who  picks 
the  flowers  to  pieces,  counts  their  petals  and 
tells  us  their  physical  structure  and  history.  So 
when  we  look  up  to  an  ideal,  love  it  and  seek 
to  realize  it,  we  actually  produce  changes  in  the 
material  world,  and  are  as  truly  related  to 
reality  as  is  possible  in  the  life  of  the  under- 
standing. Similarly  the  relation  to  another 
life  in  love  is  even  deeper  than  the  intellectual 
judgment  of  character. 

In  a  sense  the  loftiest  truth  is  appreciated  in 
wisdom  rather  than  understood  in  knowledge. 
Knowledge  and  wisdom  are  upon  different 


290  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

planes ;  knowledge  is  of  facts,  wisdom  of  truth. 
Facts  are  the  root  from  which  the  flower  of 
truth  may  or  may  not  blossom.  Truth  is  the 
soul  of  fact,  is  fact  interpreted;  and  for  right 
interpretation,  wise  vision  of  life  in  relation 
is  required.  Thus  one  may  know  much  and 
not  be  wise  at  all ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  one 
may  be  deeply  wise  and  quite  without  ordinary 
learning.  That  is  what  Jesus  meant  when  he 
said:  "I  thank  thee,  O  Father,  .  .  .  that  thou 
hast  hid  these  things  from  the  wise  and  pru- 
dent, and  hast  revealed  them  unto  babes."  * 
To  enter  the  kingdom  of  truth  one  must  have 
the  simple  openness  of  the  child.  To  see  true 
one  must  be  true ;  and  moral  sincerity  or  reality 
is  the  deepest  basis  of  wisdom.  That  is  why 
persons  who  always  ring  true  are  found  almost 
as  often  among  the  unlearned  as  among  the 
highly  educated. 

Art  has  thus  a  closer  relation  to  reality  than 
philosophy. 

"Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be ;"  f 

*Luke,   Chapter   X,    verse   21. 
t  In  Memoriam,  Prelude. 


THE  LIFE  OF  APPRECIATION  291 

because  in  our  "little  systems"  we  take  the  arc 
we  have  found  of  God's  truth  and  twist  it  into 
a  completed  theory  of  the  world.  The  theory 
helps  for  a  time,  as  a  basis  of  life,  but  inevit- 
ably passes.  Art,  on  the  other  hand,  may  pre- 
sent the  arc  of  truth  with  its  curve  scarcely 
changed,  since  the  artist  is  often  inconsistent 
for  the  sake  of  truth,  presenting,  in  all  the  form 
and  color  of  life,  what  experience  has  taught 
him. 

This  was  Victor  Hugo's  meaning  in  hold- 
ing that  the  scientists  build,  one  on  the  labors 
of  another,  but  the  great  artist  breaks  out 
through  the  finite  into  the  infinite,  and  his 
work  therefore  has  eternal  value.*  Hence  an 
artistic  masterpiece  has  power  to  grow  with 
our  growth,  fresh  truth  being  evident  in  it  as 
we  bring  to  unlock  it  the  key  of  deeper  experi- 
ence. There  is  in  every  true  work  of  art  some- 
thing of  that  inexhaustible  residuum  that  is  in 
life  itself,  giving  dignity  to  the  humblest  per- 
sonality. Life  is  the  text  all  philosophy  has 
sought  to  interpret,  and  there  is  more  in  the 

*  Victor  Hugo,  William  Shakespeare,  translated  by  M.  B. 
Anderson,  Book  III,  Chapters  III-V.  A.  C.  McClurg  & 
Co.,  Chicago,  1899. 


292  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

text  than  in  all  the  commentaries.  Indeed,  the 
supreme  value  of  the  greatest  thinkers,  such  as 
Plato  and  Spinoza,  is  that  they  have  been  ar- 
tists as  well  as  philosophers,  giving  concrete 
insight  and  the  wisdom  of  life,  as  well  as  meta- 
physical theory.  Love,  wisdom,  faith  and 
beauty  thus  belong  to  the  life  of  appreciation, 
and  defy  complete  translation  into  terms  of  the 
understanding. 

This  explains  why,  despite  the  fact  that 
almost  every  philosopher,  from  Plato  down- 
ward, has  attempted  an  explanation  of  beauty, 
beauty  remains  undefined.  The  most  that  we 
can  do  is  to  show  its  aspects  and  relations.  For 
example,  there  is  in  nearly  all  appreciation  of 
beauty  an  element  of  convention;  we  respond 
most  readily  to  that  to  which  we  are  habituated. 
Consider  the  different  types  of  human  face  and 
figure  that  have  been  regarded  as  beautiful  by 
various  races  in  different  times.  I  recall  Stan- 
ley's remarking  that,  after  being  for  a  long 
time  in  Central  Africa,  and  seeing  constantly 
the  bare,  rich,  brown  and  black  bodies  of  the 
natives,  the  few  white  men  with  him  appeared 
singularly  washed  out  and  unpleasing. 

Erasmus  was  perhaps  the  most  cultivated 


THE  LIFE  OF  APPRECIATION  293 

man  of  his  age.  He  loved  the  beauty  of  Greek 
manuscripts  and  Latin  literature.  In  the  vigor 
of  his  manhood  he  crossed  the  Alps  on  horse- 
back, on  the  road  to  Italy  to  take  his  doctor's 
degree.  His  letters  note  just  three  things  as 
impressing  him  in  Switzerland:  the  dirty  and 
inconvenient  lodgings,  the  intolerable  smell 
from  the  stoves,  and  the  sour  wine  that  gave 
him  indigestion!*  Not  a  word  of  the  pictur- 
esque beauty  of  that  circle  beyond  circle  of 
snow-clad  mountains  rising  till  their  summits 
seem  to  touch  the  sky.  The  point  is,  the  ro- 
mantic love  of  nature  beauty  had  not  yet  come 
to  consciousness  in  Europe,  and  Erasmus,  with 
all  his  cultivation,  was  totally  without  it.  Is  a 
better  illustration  needed  of  the  element  of 
habit  and  convention  entering  into  the  appre- 
ciation of  beauty?  If  so,  remember  that 
Shakespeare  was  regarded  by  the  best  critics 
of  one  long  pseudo-classical  period  as  an  untu- 
tored barbarian,  with  great  natural  genius  but 
no  art! 

Every  lover  of  beauty  would  resent,  how- 
ever, our  making  too  much  of  its  conventional 

*  Froude,   Life   and  Letters  of  Erasmus,  p.   310.    Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1895. 


294  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

aspect.  He  is  sure  there  is  something  deeper 
and  more  permanent  in  the  nature  of  beauty; 
and  he  is  right.  Such  a  principle  is  the  har- 
mony of  the  parts  in  a  whole,  in  the  appeal 
whether  of  nature  or  art.  Emerson  speaks 
of  this  in  Each  and  All: 

"I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough ; 
I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even ; 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now, 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky ; — 
He  sang  to  my  ear, — they  sang  to  my  eye." 

So  with  the  appeal  to  one  sense :  the  beauty 
of  the  landscape  is  not  in  the  lake,  river,  forest, 
hills  or  sky;  but  in  all  these  fused  together  in 
a  harmonious  whole.  Similarly,  the  beauty  of 
a  Corot  painting  is  not  in  the  misty  group  of 
trees,  the  dancing  figures,  the  mellow  dawn 
light  or  the  subtle  atmosphere,  but  in  the  com- 
position of  these  into  a  harmony. 

Still  deeper  in  beauty  is  the  harmony  of 
an  organism  to  its  function,  or  of  a  thing  made 
to  its  purpose.  A  beautiful  body  is  one  where 
every  structure  and  organ  is  well  adapted  to 


THE  LIFE  OF  APPRECIATION  295 

its  purpose.  Thus  deformity  is  always  aestheti- 
cally painful  because  it  interposes  a  barrier 
between  organ  and  function.  The  running  of 
a  child  in  the  sunshine  is  beautiful  because  the 
action  is  so  natural  and  inevitable. 

The  same  principle  holds  even  with  things 
made  by  the  hand  of  man.  When  one  sees  a 
great  machine  smoothly  doing  its  work,  with 
no  friction  anywhere,  one's  feeling  is  closely 
akin  to  that  one  experiences  in  the  presence  of 
the  sublime.  Indeed,  when  our  mechanical 
age  is  far  enough  in  the  past  to  be  seen  in 
perspective,  I  have  no  doubt  that  our  wonder- 
ful machinery  will  be  recognized  as  romantic 
and  almost  sublime.  Stand  beside  the  railroad 
track  at  night,  under  the  stars,  and  watch  a 
brilliantly  lighted  passenger  train  sweep  by; 
and  you  feel  up  and  down  your  back  a  shiver 
closely  akin  to  that  you  experience  in  the  pres- 
ence of  some  masterpiece  of  art.  Henry  Tur- 
ner Bailey  says  that  he  hopes,  before  the  steam 
locomotive  completely  passes,  some  artist  will 
paint  it,  so  that  its  romance  may  be  recorded. 

I  never  cross  on  a  ferry  from  New  Jersey 
to  New  York,  in  the  morning  or  evening,  and 


296  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

see  those  high  buildings,  outlined  like  watch- 
towers  against  the  misty  blush  of  the  sky, 
without  keenly  responding  to  the  scene.  The 
"sky-scraper,"  born  of  the  modern  business 
imagination,  is  wonderfully  adapted  to  its  pur- 
pose— that  of  lifting  a  vast  population  into  the 
air  and  multiplying  many  times  the  activities 
possible  on  the  little  end  of  Manhattan  is- 
land; and  I  have  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand how  artists  who  come  back  full  of  praises 
for  the  ragged  sky  line  of  towers  and  crags 
upon  the  Rhine,  can  show  only  contempt  for 
the  equally  ragged  and,  seen  in  perspective, 
at  least  equally  romantic  sky  line  of  Manhat- 
tan island. 

Still  deeper  as  a  principle  of  beauty  is  that 
harmony  of  soul  and  body,  content  and  form, 
we  have  previously  studied.  This  is  present 
in  both  nature  and  art.  To  give  beauty  there 
must  be  definitely  limited  form;  the  abstract 
conception  must  attain  concrete  realization; 
and  the  more  perfect  the  marrying  of  the  body 
of  expression  to  the  soul  of  meaning,  the 
greater  is  the  beauty. 

We  may  go  one  step  farther.     All  art,  as 


THE  LIFE  OF  APPRECIATION  297 

we  have  seen,  draws  its  forms  ultimately  from 
nature.  Thus  the  final  principle  of  all  appre- 
ciation of  beauty  lies  in  the  relation  we  sustain 
to  the  nature  world,  Now  there  is  a  natural 
rhythm  between  human  sensibility  and  the 
forms  and  colors  of  nature,  which  results  from 
the  general  process  of  evolution.  Our  senses 
have  been  developed  on  the  basis  of  the  world 
as  it  is,  and  there  is  thus  the  same  adaptation 
to  environment  in  our  response  to  beauty,  that 
is  present  in  our  relation  to  the  fundamental 
conditions  of  life.  We  can  trace  the  develop- 
ment of  the  eye  from  the  simple  pigment  spot 
sensitive  to  light,  in  the  body  of  some  early 
animal,  to  the  wonderful  window  of  the  soul 
through  which  we  look  out  on  the  forms  and 
colors  of  the  world.  Because  our  senses  have 
been  gradually  developed  in  harmony  with 
this  world,  it  follows  that  all  appreciation  of 
beauty  in  nature  is  a  coming  to  consciousness 
of  a  rhythm  already  existing  between  our 
senses  and  the  nature  world. 

Let  me  try  to  make  this  clear  by  a  whimsi- 
cal and  necessarily  inadequate  illustration. 
Suppose  at  noon  to-day  the  world  should  sud- 
denly turn  red — the  color  of  the  grass,  the 


298  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

foliage,  the  sea  and  the  sky  all  brilliant  red: 
What  would  happen?  We  would  all  rush  out 
doors  and  be  strongly  impressed  and  stimu- 
lated by  this  wonderful  spectacle  of  a  red 
world.  Before  night  came,  however,  those  of 
us  who  are  consciously  responsive  to  the  beauty 
of  nature  as  it  is,  would  be  tired  out*  Then 
we  should  have  to  get  up  day  after  day  and 
face  the  intolerable  red  world.  The  result 
would  be  an  increasing  depression  in  spirit 
and  action.  We  would  have  less  ambition,  less 
interest  in  our  work,  less  desire  to  marry  and 
have  children.  On  the  other  hand,  those  per- 
sons who  have  never  recognized  consciously 
the  blue  of  the  sky,  the  green  grass  and  gray 
seas,  would  get  on  very  well  with  a  red  world. 
Do  you  not  see  that  in  the  end  Nature  would 
select  a  race  of  men  really  enjoying  a  red 
world?  The  illustration  is  faulty,  I  know; 
but  it  is  the  best  I  can  give,  in  reference  to 
something  so  ultimate  in  human  nature,  to 
show  what  actually  has  occurred.  Our  senses 
have  been  developed  in  relation  to  this  world, 
though  not  to  all  of  it.  We  see  certain  colors 
of  the  spectrum,  but  when  the  vibration  of 
light  waves  in  the  transmitting  medium  be- 


THE  LIFE  OF  APPRECIATION  299 

comes  too  rapid  or  too  slow,  we  see  nothing; 
yet  may  there  not  be  whole  ranges  of  color 
beyond  ours,  seen,  for  example,  by  those 
strange,  many- faceted  eyes  of  certain  insects? 
So  we  can  hear  only  certain  limited  ranges  of 
the  vibration  we  call  sound;  but  when  one 
looks  through  the  microscope  at  the  mysteri- 
ous, apparently  auricular,  organ  of  certain  in- 
sects, one  wonders  again  whether,  in  what  we 
call  aj^jlljun^jw^ 

wealth  of  melody  and  harmonyjieard  by  the 
insect,  which  simply  does  not  exist  for  us. 
Thus  our  senses  do  not  give  us  all  the  wrorld; 
but  they  have  been  developed  in  relation  to  it, 
and  our  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  nature 
is  merely  a  consciousness  of  that  already  exist- 
ent rhythm.  Since  art  must  take  its  forms 
from  nature  and  appeal  only  through  the 
senses,  the  principle  holds  for  appreciation  of 
beauty  in  art  as  well.  Thus  it  is  possible  to 
show  the  elements  of  beauty  and  the  condi- 
tions of  our  appreciation  "of  it,  but  beauty 
itself  remains  undefined. 


"What  the  artist  does  or  has  done  excites  in  us  the  mood 
in  which  he  himself  was  when  he  did  it.  A  free  mood  in  the 
artist  makes  us  free;  a  constrained  one  makes  us  uncomfort- 
able. We  usually  find  this  freedom  of  the  artist  where  he  is 
fully  equal  to  his  subject.  It  is  on  this  account  we  are  so 
pleased  with  Dutch  pictures;  the  artists  painted  the  life 
around  them,  of  which  they  were  perfect  masters.  If  we  are 
to  feel  this  freedom  of  mind  in  an  actor,  he  must,  by  study, 
imagination,  and  natural  disposition,  be  perfect  master  of  his 
part,  must  have  all  bodily  requisites  at  his  command,  and  must 
be  upheld  by  a  certain  youthful  energy.  But  study  is  not 
enough  without  imagination,  and  study  and  imagination  to- 
gether are  not  enough  without  natural  disposition.  Women 
do  the  most  through  imagination  and  temperament." — Goethe, 
Conversations  with  Eckermann  and  Soret,  pp.  417,  418. 

"We  know  that  the  sensibility  of  the  mind  depends,  as  to 
degree,  on  the  liveliness,  and  for  extent  on  the  richness,  of 
the  imagination.  Now  the  predominance  of  the  faculty  of 
analysis  must  necessarily  deprive  the  imagination  of  its  warmth 
and  energy,  and  a  restricted  sphere  of  objects  must  diminish 
its  wealth.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  abstract  thinker  has 
very  often  a  cold  heart,  because  he  analyzes  impressions, 
which  only  move  the  mind  by  their  combination  or  totality;  on 
the  other  hand,  the  man  of  business,  the  statesman,  has  very 
often  a  narrow  heart,  because  shut  up  in  the  narrow  circle 
of  his  employment  his  imagination  can  neither  expand  nor 
adapt  itself  to  another  manner  of  viewing  things." — Schiller, 
Essays  jEsthetical  and  Philosophical,  pp.  41,  42. 

"Just  as  the  sun  cannot  shed  its  light  but  to  the  eye  that 
sees  it,  nor  music  sound  but  to  the  hearing  ear,  so  the  value 
of  all  masterly  work  in  art  and  science  is 'conditioned  by  the 
kinship  and  capacity  of  the  mind  to  which  it  speaks.  It  is 
only  such  a  mind  as  this  that  possesses  the  magic  word  to 
stir  and  call  forth  the  spirits  that  lie  hidden  in  great  work. 
To  the  ordinary  mind  a  masterpiece  is  a  sealed  cabinet  of 
mystery, — an  unfamiliar  musical  instrument  from  which  the 
player,  however  much  he  may  flatter  himself,  can  draw  none 
but  confused  tones.  How  different  a  painting  looks  when 
seen  in  a  good  light,  instead  of  in  some  dark  corner!  Just 
in  the  same  way,  the  impression  made  by  a  masterpiece  varies 
with  the  capacity  of  the  mind  to  understand  it." — Schopen- 
hauer, The  Art  of  Literature,  p.  94. 


300 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  STUDY  OF  BEAUTY  IN  NATURE 
AND  ART 

THE  life  of  appreciation  is  a  unity;  to 
touch  one  aspect  of  it  is  to  influence 
the  whole.  An  awakening  in  personal 
love  deepens  one's  response  to  the  beauty  of 
nature,  as  is  indicated  even  in  the  conven- 
tional allusions  of  poetry  to  the  lover  wander- 
ing pensively  in  wood  and  field.  The  same 
experience  influences  the  religious  life:  it  is 
no  accident  that  the  majority  of  "conversions" 
occur  in  the  period  of  sex  awakening,  nor 
does  this  fact  in  any  way  discredit  the  religious 
experience.  So  all  cultivation  of  response  to 
beauty,  when  •  in  right  relation,  deepens  the 
capacities  in  love,  in  aspiration  toward  the 
moral  and  religious  ideal  and  in  recognition 
of  truth.  Herein  lies  the  importance  of  edu- 
cating response  to  beauty.  We  can  by  con- 
scious effort  cultivate  this  aspect  of  the  life  of 
appreciation  and  so  deepen  the  whole. 
There  are  the  two  worlds  of  beauty — 

301 


302  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

ture  and  Art ;  yet  we  might  reverse  the  titles : 
nature  is  God's  art;  and  art  is  man's  highest 
nature.  Each  of  these  has  its  own  superiority. 
In  nature  the  identity  of  content  and  form 
is  so  wonderful  that  beside  it  human  art  seems 
painfully  stumbling  and  inadequate.  This 
union  of  the  soul  of  meaning  with  the  body 
of  expression  in  a  flower,  for  example,  is  per- 
fect to  the  point  that  it  may  sound  strange  to 
speak  of  the  two  elements  as  present.  So  the 
flaming  dawns  and  golden  sunsets,  the  somber 
forest  and  melody  of  the  pines — all  seem  to  be 
the  serene  flowing  forth  of  the  divine  mind 
into  harmonious  expression.  Even 

"Vague  outlines  of  the  Everlasting  Thought 
Lie  in  the  melting  shadows  as  they  pass."  * 

The  artist  can  but  stand  in  awe-struck  admira- 
tion before  this  fusing  of  idea  and  expression 
in  the  matchless  art  of  the  Eternal  Hand. 

Even  more  significant  is  the  fact  that  nature 
is  alive  with  ever-changing  beauty.  The  great- 
est of  landscape  paintings  can  fix  but  one  mood 
of  nature  in  statical  form,  while  in  the  world 

*  Richard  Realf,  Symbolisms,  in  Poems,  p.  4.  Funk  & 
Wagnalls  Co.,  New  York,  1898. 


THE  STUDY  OF  BEAUTY  303 

without,  from  the  flush  of  the  dawn,  through 
the  growing  splendor  of  the  morning,  on  to 
the  beauty  of  the  late  afternoon,  the  apoca- 
lypse of  the  sunset  and  the  night  with  its  calm, 
shining  stars,  the  single  day  pours  out  an  in- 
exhaustible wealth  of  beauty,  changing  each 
instant  of  time.  The  greatest  portrait  paint- 
er— a  Titian,  a  Rembrandt,  a  Raphael — can 
paint  but  one  of  the  actual  or  possible  expres- 
sions of  the  face,  fixing  it  permanently.  The 
countenance  of  the  humblest  of  us  is  alive, 
constantly  changing,  played  upon  by  the  ever- 
varying  light  and  shadow,  freshly  revealing 
character  in  each  of  the  manifold  expressions 
of  a  single  hour.  Even  literature,  with  all  its 
power  to  portray  life  in  action  and  relation, 
seems  a  poor  echo  in  contrast  to  the  vast,  mul- 
tiform maelstrom  of  life. 

The  harmony  or  identity  of  form  and 
content  in  nature  gives  a  wonderful  healing 
power  for  the  spirit  of  man.  No  human  art, 
not  even  Greek  sculpture,  has  this  power  in 
equal  measure.  Goethe  shows  this  ministry 
of  Nature  in  the  scene  which  begins  the  second 
part  of  his  supreme  work,  where  Faust,  before 
entering  upon  his  career  in  the  larger  world, 


304  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

is  healed  in  the  calm,  sweet  Lethe  he  finds 
on  the  breast  of  the  Nature  mother.  This  min- 
istry is  experienced  in  all  our  response  to  the 
beauty  and  sublimity  of  nature,  and  it  is  im- 
possible to  exaggerate  its  value  for  the  mod- 
ern spirit. 

At  least  equally  significant  is  the  exalting 
power  of  the  living  beauty  of  nature  over  the 
spirit,  lifting  us  away  from  the  submerging 
stream  of  events  that  surges  by  us  each  day, 
giving  calm  perspective  and  inspiring  to  sane 
action.  Wordsworth  said  of  one  of  his  char- 
acters : 

"Love  had  he  found  in  huts  where  poor  men  lie; 
His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and  rills, 
The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 
The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills."  * 

Emerson  exclaimed  in  a  fragment  of  verse 
that  might  be  taken  as  the  motto  of  his  life: 

"Teach  me  your  mood,  O  patient  stars ! 
Who  climb  each  night  the  ancient  sky, 
Leaving  on  space  no  shade,  no  scars, 
No  trace  of  age,  no  fear  to  die."  f 

*  Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle,  Works,  Globe 
edition,  p.  365. 

f  Poems,  Riverside  edition,  from  the  appendix,  p.  277. 


THE  STUDY  OF  BEAUTY  305 

To  such  an  exalted  mood  the  beauty  of  nature 
may  lift  us,  giving  memories  that  lessen  the 
weight  of  many  a  burden  and  lighten  the  strug- 
gle up  many  a  stony  path.  With  this,  how  it 
widens  our  relation  to  the  great  universe  that 
stretches  away,  giving  steady  growth  in  power 
to  see  and  appreciate. 

Since  the  contribution  to  our  lives  may  be 
so  great,  it  is  most  important  to  receive  it 
fully.  The  need  is  to  put  ourselves  in  the 
way  of  enjoying  the  beauty  of  nature.  Just 
because  it  is  given  so  lavishly  and  universally, 
we  are  apt  to  ignore  it  and  fail  of  its  gift;  yet 
the  inexhaustible  fecundity  of  nature  is  but 
the  measure  of  our  opportunity.  Let  us  enter 
into  our  heritage  of  beauty,  given  everywhere 
in  seas  and  forests,  gray  moorlands  and  purple 
mountains,  daisy-dotted  meadows  and  brooks 
flowing  through  leafy  nooks,  rosy  dawns  and 
starlit  nights — just  to  enjoy  it  is  the  main 
requisite. 

Opportunities  for  appreciation  are  not 
enough,  however.  It  is  possible  to  live  close 
to  Nature,  and  yet  be  blind  to  her  beauty. 
Indeed,  constant  utilitarian  association  may 
dull  the  aesthetic  response.  It  is  not  always 


306  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

the  Swiss  peasants  who  appreciate  most  con- 
sciously the  beauty  of  the  Alps.  They  love 
them,  and  usually  come  back  to  them,  from 
keeping  shops  in  Italy  or  restaurants  in  Lon- 
don; yet  the  cultivated  traveler,  who  comes 
and  goes,  may  respond  far  more  keenly  to  the 
beauty  of  the  mountains.  Nature  is  so  vast 
and  overwhelming  that  we  are  bewildered  by 
the  very  wealth  of  beauty  poured  out.  We 
need  to  study  consciously  this  beauty,  to  iso- 
late from  the  multitude  of  forms,  mastering 
one  fragment  after  another,  for  the  sake  of 
deepening  subsequent  spontaneous  apprecia- 
tion. 

Let  one  get  acquainted  with  a  tree  one 
passes  every  morning ;  see  it  in  the  flush  of  the 
springtime,  wakening  to  the  garment  of  soft 
green ;  in  the  full  tide  of  the  luxuriant  summer 
with  the  dark  green  foliage  and  cool  shadows; 
in  the  autumn  when,  as  you  pass  some  morn- 
ing, the  flash  of  gold  and  crimson  is  across 
its  boughs,  as  if  some  transfiguring  hand  had 
touched  it  with  the  caress  of  death;  then 
watch  it  day  by  day  as  the  color  spreads,  fades 
to  dimmer  hues,  until  the  brown  leaves  fall 
in  whirling  gusts  under  the  gray  sky,  and  the 


THE  STUDY  OF  BEAUTY  307 

bare  arms  are  outlined  like  lace-work  against 
the  somber  heaven;  on  to  the  white  sleeping 
time  of  the  winter:  and  you  find  such  loving 
appreciation  of  one  aspect  of  nature  is  a  door- 
way to  the  whole  world  of  beauty. 

If  you  have  walked  in  the  fields  with  an 
artist,  you  were  doubtless  surprised,  the  first 
time,  at  colors  to  which  he  called  your  atten- 
tion. You  did  not  see  them,  and  came  home 
feeling  that  these  artist  folk  were  strange 
persons,  but  to  be  tolerated  for  what  they 
achieve.  Go  again  and  again,  and  you  dis- 
cover that  the  colors  were  there  all  the  time; 
it  was  merely  that  your  eye  had  to  be  trained 
to  see  them.  Perhaps  your  artist  friend  car- 
ried a  little  glass  into  which  he  occasionally 
squinted,  arousing  your  curiosity.  You  in- 
quired what  it  was,  and  he  replied,  "a  reducing 
glass,"  the  opposite  of  a  magnifying  glass. 
It  merely  pushed  the  landscape  away  and 
framed  it,  yet  how  magical  the  effect!  Such 
an  aid  is  not  needed  by  the  sea  or  from  the 
mountain  top,  where  Nature  sets  the  picture 
away  and  frames  it  with  the  sky;  but  when 
one  is  looking  down  the  village  lane,  at  the 
straggling  buildings  across  the  road,  or  through 


308  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

the  avenue  of  trees,  the  reducing  glass  shows 
one  a  wealth  of  colors  and  beautiful  forms 
which  were  there  all  the  time,  but  not  seen 
consciously  until  one's  relation  to  the  picture 
was  slightly  changed. 

Some  time  when  you  are  in  the  country, 
upon  a  slight  elevation,  try  the  experiment  of 
bending  over  and  looking  at  the  world  upside 
down.  You  will  be  amazed  at  the  colors  you 
see  and  the  fresh  beauty  of  the  forms.  The 
landscape  is  unchanged;  it  is  merely  that  the 
position  of  your  eyes  in  relation  to  it  is  re- 
versed ;  and  thus  the  blurring  of  the  impression 
by  habit,  is  replaced  by  the  shock  of  a  new  re- 
lation and  the  consequent  stimulation  of  the 
attention. 

The  first  time  one  goes  to  London  one  is 
impressed  with  the  terrible  weight  of  life,  the 
sordid  materialism,  the  ugly,  utilitarian,  smoke- 
stained  buildings.  Let  one  climb  to  the  top  of 
a  great  omnibus  and  go  bowling  down  Ox- 
ford street,  and  the  whole  impression  is  trans- 
formed. One  sees  the  long  vista  of  the  street 
softened  with  misty  light,  the  structures  on 
either  hand  picturesque  and  transfigured  with 
the  dreamy  atmosphere,  the  whole  scene  lifted 


THE  STUDY  OF  BEAUTY  309 

to  the  world  of  ideals  and  dreams.  Why? 
Merely  because  one  has  been  lifted  a  dozen 
feet  from  the  sidewalk,  and  a  fresh  point  of 
view  obtained.  These  devices  merely  indicate 
how  one  may  freshen  one's  reaction,  deepen 
one's  appreciation,  and  so  by  conscious  study 
enter  the  kingdom  of  beauty. 

Conscious  reception  is  not  enough;  there  is 
need,  too,  of  expression.  A  hazy  notion  be- 
comes a  clear  conception  only  through  expres- 
sion. When  a  student  says  that  he  knows 
but  cannot  tell,  the  statement  is  partly  false. 
The  fact  is,  he  does  not  clearly  know  until  he 
has  told  in  some  form.  Intellectually  and  ar- 
tistically nothing  is  truly  our  own  until  we 
have  given  it  away — expressed  it  in  some 
form;  and  that  is  why  spiritual  things  grow 
by  sharing  them. 

Thus  one  needs  to  give  some  expression  of 
one's  response  to  the  beauty  of  nature.  That 
is  the  value  of  comradeship  and  conversation 
with  a  friend.  That  also  is  the  value  of  draw- 
ing and  painting  as  taught  in  the  public 
schools.  There  are  those  who  imagine  that 
we  hope  to  make  artists  of  all  the  children: 
we  neither  hope  nor  fear  that  one  child  in  a 


310  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

hundred  will  become  an  artist,  but  we  do  hope 
that  all  the  other  ninety-nine,  as  well,  will 
learn  to  see  something  more  of  the  forms  and 
colors  of  things  by  trying  to  express  them. 

You  may  say,  "We  are  not  artists,  and  our 
education  lacked  this  opportunity."  There  is 
one  art,  nevertheless,  open  to  all.  It  is  the 
universal  art  of  our  own  language.  If  one 
will  write  out  the  impression  made  on  one  by 
the  unusual  sunset,  the  sweep  of  mountains, 
the  peace  of  the  forest,  such  a  book  of  thoughts 
and  impressions  will  be  a  great  means  of 
growth  in  appreciation,  as  well  as  an  inter- 
esting record  of  one's  experience. 

This  conscious  study  is  wholly  for  the  sake 
of  appreciation.  Were  we  to  stop  with  the 
conscious  analysis,  it  would  be  worse  than  use- 
less; but  as  a  means  to  subsequent  synthetic 
appreciation  it  becomes  a  great  help  in  en- 
abling us  to  enter  into  our  heritage. 

If  Art  must  lack  the  identity  of  content  and 
form  present  in  Nature,  and  if,  in  contrast  to 
the  living  revelation  of  beauty  in  Nature,  it 
seems  fixed  and  inert,  Art  has,  as  we  have 
shown,  a  correlative  greatness  of  its  own.  The 


THE  STUDY  OF  BEAUTY  311 

soul  in  Nature  is  dumb  and  brooding.  It  is 
indeed  "Vague  outlines  of  the  everlasting 
thought"  that  "lie  in  the  melting  shadows  as 
they  pass" ;  and  these  vague  outlines  are  trans- 
lated to  clear  expression  only  through  human 
art.  Contrast  the  inchoate,  if  spheric,  music 
of  the  pine  forest,  with  the  ordered  melody  and 
harmony  of  a  Beethoven  symphony ;  the  brood- 
ing beauty  of  the  French  nature  world,  with 
its  clear  interpretation  in  Corot,  Millet  and 
Bastien-Lepage ;  the  bewildering  maelstrom 
of  human  life,  with  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  Faust 
and  the  Divine  Comedy.  Remember  that  only 
through  concrete  expression  is  the  abstract  idea 
mastered,  and  that  Art,  by  putting  life  and 
nature  through  the  transmuting  medium  of 
the  artist's  spirit  and  appreciation,  reveals 
their  meaning.  Thus,  in  its  own  ways,  Art 
goes  beyond  and  above  Nature,  with  an  ex- 
cellence of  its  own. 

Thus  there  is  in  relation  to  Art,  as  to  Na- 
ture, at  least  equal  need  that  we  give  our- 
selves daily  to  the  enjoyment  of  beauty.  That 
usually  we  have  so  little  is  due,  not  mainly 
to  lack  of  opportunity,  but  to  failure  to  use 
the  opportunities  that  lie  close  at  hand.  I 


312  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

recall  an  experience  in  going  to  visit  for  the 
first  time  the  museum  of  art  in  one  of  our 
greater  American  cities.  It  was  necessary  to 
pass  down  a  main  thoroughfare,  where  high 
board-fences  had  been  erected  before  some 
building  operations.  The  boards  were  covered 
with  flaming  posters,  advertising  some  par- 
ticularly sensational  vaudeville,  and  the  crowd 
gazing  upon  them  was  so  great  that  one  had 
to  walk  in  the  gutter.  I  came  to  the  gallery: 
there  was  no  crowd  there;  the  hollow  echo  of 
one's  footfall  alone  broke  the  stillness.  Yet 
here  was  a  Corot  as  characteristic  as  anything 
in  the  Louvre.  On  one  side,  the  painting  con- 
tained a  dark  mass  of  trees,  in  the  foreground 
the  characteristic  group  of  dancing  figures, 
over  all  the  subtle  depth  of  atmosphere,  with 
a  wealth  of  yellow  dawn  lighting  coming  in 
from  behind.  In  the  next  room  was  Millet's 
Shepherd  Returning  with  his  Flock:  the  sheep 
huddled  together,  their  backs  touched  with 
the  red  light  of  the  setting  sun  that  hung 
lurid,  just  above  the  horizon;  before  them  the 
shepherd — a  tattered  cloak  about  him,  heavy 
wooden  shoes  upon  his  feet,  the  crook  in  his 
hand,  and  in  his  face  that  pathetic  hunger,  of 


THE  STUDY  OF  BEAUTY  313 

which  Millet's  social  idealism  made  him  the 
great  interpreter;  while  all  about  the  desolate 
moorland  stretched  away. 

Near  by  was  Munkacsy's  Bringing  in  the 
Night  Rovers:  an  early  morning  street  scene, 
with  groups  of  common  people — an  old  wom- 
an selling  carrots,  a  girl  returning  from  mar- 
ket with  a  basket  on  her  arm,  a  little  child 
going  to  school;  in  the  center  the  prisoners 
and  guard — in  the  foreground  of  these  a  rude 
giant,  the  massive  figure  in  tattered  cloak,  a 
look  of  dumb  hatred  and  rebellious  gloom  in 
the  face.  I  need  not  multiply  descriptions;  a 
dozen  other  great  paintings  were  there,  not  to 
mention  the  admirable  reproductions  of  mas- 
terpieces of  sculpture;  yet  the  museum  was 
almost  vacant.  The  same  experience  can  be 
repeated  in  almost  any  city.  I  have  noted 
that  even  in  Boston,  many  of  the  persons  vis- 
iting the  museum  and  the  paintings  in  the 
public  library  have  to  ask  their  way  about  the 
city  when  they  leave. 

Everywhere  the  same  fault  is  evident — 
failure  to  enjoy  opportunities  that  are  just  at 
hand.  So  with  music:  each  of  us  has  friends 
with  some  proficiency  in  that  art;  and  it  is 


314,  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

true  we  do  ask  them  to  play  or  sing  when  we 
give  an  evening's  entertainment;  yet  there  is 
not  one  of  them  who  would  not  rather  play 
or  sing  for  you  alone,  because  you  love  music, 
than  be  used  as  polite  fringe  on  your  dinner 
party,  where  the  guests  present  are  not  even 
courteous  enough  to  stop  talking  and  listen  to 
the  music. 

Of  all  the  fine  arts,  literature  is  the  most 
accessible.  Whatever  limitations  one  may  suf- 
fer under,  in  opportunities  for  the  enjoyment 
of  sculpture,  painting  and  music,  the  noblest 
achievements  in  literature  are  everywhere 
available.  The  great  books  of  all  time  lie  on 
the  table  in  your  own  room  for  use  in  that 
margin  of  life  that  most  persons  so  sadly 
waste.  Indeed,  as  with  the  beauty  of  nature, 
the  very  accessibility  of  literature  blinds  us  to 
its  value.  Thus  here,  even  more  than  with  the 
other  arts,  failure  to  enjoy  beauty  is  one's  own 
fault. 

Still,  with  art  as  with  nature,  opportunities 
for  spontaneous  appreciation  are  not  sufficient. 
Here,  too,  without  training  and  cultivation,  we 
often  make  sad  work  of  it.  How  many  per- 
sons are  only  confused  and  bored  by  great 


THE  STUDY  OF  BEAUTY  315 

music,  and  go  to  hear  it  merely  because  they 
think  it  is  socially  the  thing  to  do.  So  with 
painting  and  sculpture:  consider  the  average 
American  abroad,  who  spends  an  occasional 
free  hour  "doing"  a  gallery — a  phrase  as  of- 
fensive in  expression  as  it  is  pathetic  in  mean- 
ing. One  sees  the  groups  of  tourists  surging 
through  the  gallery,  from  room  to  room,  and 
one  wonders  whether  the  result  can  be  other 
than  a  confused  blur  of  impressions,  while  one 
blushes  for  one's  countrymen.  Even  with  lit- 
erature, careless  reading  and  whimsical  re- 
sponse are  more  frequent  than  sound  appre- 
ciation. 

No,  opportunities  to  enjoy  beauty  are  not 
enough;  with  art,  as  with  nature,  there  must 
be  added  the  conscious  study  of  beauty  for 
the  sake  of  subsequent  appreciation.  Thus 
when  one  enters  a  new  gallery  of  paintings, 
instead  of  wandering  through,  and  blurring 
one  impression  with  a  hundred  others,  let  one 
select  two  or  three  great  works  and  try  to 
master  them.  Ask  questions  of  the  painting. 
Why  did  Corot  bring  the  dawn  lighting  in 
from  behind?  What  do  the  dancing  figures 
add  to  the  impression  of  the  whole?  What  is 


316  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

the  value  of  the  atmosphere?  Why  are  the 
trees  grouped  at  one  side?  What  was  the 
artist  attempting  to  do  in  this  painting?  What 
is  its  relation  to  the  actual  nature  world? 

So  with  the  Millet  painting  described  above : 
What  is  value  of  the  stretch  of  moorland? 
What  did  Millet  mean  by  the  look  of  weariness 
and  dumb  hunger  in  the  shepherd's  face? 
What  is  his  aim  in  the  painting?  What  is  the 
relative  value  of  nature  and  the  human  ele- 
ments in  it?  What  gives  it  beauty? 

A  little  of  such  earnest,  first-hand  study,  and 
the  pictures  begin  to  fall  into  place:  one  soon 
becomes  aware  of  the  definitive  characteristics 
of  different  schools  and  separate  artists;  and 
one  enters  into  one's  heritage,  as  is  impossible 
through  the  most  extended  reading  of  criticism 
and  history  of  art. 

With  music,  such  study  is  more  difficult,  just 
because  music  is  evanescent,  and  thus  those 
who  do  not  possess  the  peculiar  musical  mem- 
ory find  a  composition  difficult  to  recall.  The 
more  reason  for  hearing  a  great  composition 
over  and  over  again.  Your  musical  friend, 
whom  you  ask  to  play  for  you,  tells  you  he 
has  nothing  new.  Tell  him  you  are  glad,  that 


THE  STUDY  OF  BEAUTY  317 

you  did  not  want  novelty,  but  music;  and 
listen  again  and  again  to  a  composition  until 
you  have  made  it  your  ownv  Study  what  it 
does  to  your  senses  and  emotions,  analyze  its 
themes  and  motives,  its  harmonies,  study  the 
artist's  method  and  purpose.  Through  a  little 
of  such  analysis  one's  subsequent  enjoyment 
of  music  may  be  immeasurably  deepened. 

Again  the  accessibility  of  literature  makes 
such  study  peculiarly  possible  and  valuable  in 
that  art.  To  choose  a  single  significant  ex- 
ample: let  one  take  the  little  volume  compiled 
by  Palgrave — the  Golden  Treasury  of  Songs 
and  Lyrics;  let  one  go  through  it  poem  by 
poem,  analyzing  the  structure,  diction  and 
imagery,  studying  at  every  point  the  relation 
of  forms  of  expression  to  the  content  of 
thought,  feeling  and  imagination,  noting  the 
molding  influence  of  artist  and  epoch ;  and  one 
will  find  that  the  whole  wealth  of  world  litera- 
ture has  been  opened  to  one  and  given  new 
beauty  and  meaning. 

Finally,  not  less  than  with  nature,  does  the 
student  need  to  give  expression  to  his  experi- 
ence with  art.  By  recording  carefully  the  im- 
pression each  great  work  of  art  makes  upon 


318  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

him,  the  student  learns  to  master  his  own  ex- 
perience and  fix  and  clarify  the  receptive  life. 
Such  study  of  beauty,  carried  on  for  a  little 
time  each  day,  will  give  one  the  heritage  of 
both  nature  and'  art  beyond  one's  highest  ex- 
pectation. 


"Continue  to  translate  yourself  to  the  heaven  of  art;  there 
is  no  more  undisturbed,  unmixed,  purer  happiness  than  may 
thus  be  attained." — Beethoven,  in  Kerst,  Beethoven:  The  Man 
and  the  Artist,  p.  12. 

"Let  us  remember  the  prompter,  very  delicately  and  geni- 
ally drawn  by  Goethe  in  a  few  touches,  who  is  so  much  moved 
at  certain  places  that  he  weeps  hot  tears;  yet  'it  is,  strictly 
speaking,  not  the  so-called  moving  places  that  affect  him  so, 
but  the  beautiful  places  from  which  the  pure  genius  of  the 
poet,  so  to  speak,  looks  out  from  bright,  open  eyes.'  In  the 
case  of  persons  of  a  predominantly  tender,  ardent  disposi- 
tion we  not  seldom  meet  this  phenomenon.  A  beautiful  poem, 
a  sublime  scene  in  nature — nay,  the  narration  of  a  good  deed, 
moves  them  to  tears.  And  history  tells  us  of  the  noble 
Saladin,  who  was  a  warlike  hero,  that  the  narration  of  great 
deeds  and  simple  touching  occurrences  often  moved  him  also 
to  tears.  It  can  hardly  be  assumed  that  a  warlike  hero 
is  the  possessor  of  weak  nerves.  What  have  these  grayish- 
white  threads  to  do  at  all  with  the  eternal  ideas  of  the  Good 
and  the  Beautiful?  The  emotion  of  which  we  have  just  spoken 
is  something  better  than  mere  nervous  irritation;  it  is  a  higher 
kind  of  homesickness,  which  attacks  us  when  the  ideas  of  the 
Good  and  the  Beautiful  suddenly  appear  before  us  and  remind 
us  of  our  eternal  home." — Ambros,  The  Boundaries  of  Music 
and  Poetry,  pp.  42,  43. 

"The  amphora  which  refuses  to  go  to  the  fountain  deserves 
the  hisses  of  the  water-pots." — Victor  Hugo,  William  Shake- 
speare, p.  319. 

"I  admit  that  the  exercises  of  the  gymnasium  form  ath- 
letic bodies;  but  beauty  is  only  developed  by  the  free  and 
equal  play  of  the  limbs.  In  the  same  way  the  tension  of  the 
isolated  spiritual  forces  may  make  extraordinary  men;  but  it 
is  only  the  well-tempered  equilibrium  of  these  forces  that  can 
produce  happy  and  accomplished  men." — Schiller,  Essays 
JEsthetical  and  Philosophical,  p»  43. 


320 


CHAPTER    XIX 
ART    FOR    LIFE'S    SAKE 

SINCE  art  has  its  own  aspects  of  superi- 
ority, as  compared  with  nature,  it  fulfills 
its  own  service  for  the  spirit.  Something 
of  the  same  healing  power,  exercised  by  the 
beauty  of  nature  is  in  its  influence,  while  it 
is  at  least  equally  exalting,  lifting  the  spirit 
and  stimulating  to  great  action.  Art  is  fur- 
ther a  wonderful  source  of  power  to  see  and 
appreciate  the  world  as  it  is,  and  life  as  it  ought 
to  be.  When  Raphael  achieves  a  Sistine 
Madonna,  it  is  not  merely  one  more  beautiful 
picture  to  hang  in  Dresden  gallery,  but  that 
an  ideal  over  which  ten  centuries  brooded  and 
prayed  is  made  real  for  all  time,  or  until  the 
canvas  rots  and  the  figures  fade  from  it.  So 
when  Shakespeare  carves  in  Pentelic  marble 
the  beauty  of  his  Desdemona  or  shapes  the 
bronze  majesty  of  Cleopatra,  or  when  Dante 
wakens  from  the  dark  fugue  of  the  Inferno 
the  tender  melody  of  his  Francesca  da  Rimini, 
the  result  is  not  merely  three  more  literary 


322  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

paintings  for  the  galleries  of  the  past,  but  three 
windows  opened  into  the  woman's  soul  and 
hence  into  the  life  of  the  human  spirit;  and 
to  look  reverently  through  these  windows  is  to 
come  back  to  the  every-day  world  of  men  and 
women  with  deepened  power  to  appreciate  the 
wonder,  pathos,  comedy,  romance,  tragedy  of 
common  life. 

So  with  our  appreciation  of  nature.  Every 
great  landscape  painting  not  only  makes  its 
own  contribution,  but  enables  us  to  look  out 
on  the  world  with  unsealed  eyes.  How  won- 
derfully a  gallery  of  sculpture  trains  us  to  see 
the  beauty  of  the  forms  life  molds;  how  sen- 
sitive the  music  lover  becomes  to  the  inarticu- 
late melody  of  nature;  while  poetry  is  forever 
revealing  to  us  the  beauty  of  common  things. 
The  daisy  bloomed  unnoticed  in  the  grass  for 
uncounted  centuries;  it  was  when  Robert 
Burns  called  it  "Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped 
flower"  that  we  saw  how  beautiful  it  was,  and 
we  have  been  talking  about  it  ever  since. 

Of  all  the  hours  of  the  day  or  night,  perhaps 
the  most  moving  is  that  just  after  the  sunset, 
when  the  sky  lights  with  red  and  gold  sinking 
into  the  gray  of  the  evening,  the  work  of  the 


ART  FOR  LIFE'S  SAKE  323 

day  is  behind  and  the  rest  of  the  night  not  yet 
come;  when,  if  we  are  wise,  we  pause  in  our 
tasks  to  meditate  and  dream.  That  hour  has 
found  interpretation  everywhere  in  noble  art 
— in  painting,  in  music,  above  all  in  poetry. 
From  pagan  Sappho  to  Byron  who,  standing 
on  Ravenna's  shore  beside  the  pine  forest  with 
its  flood  of  memories,  paraphrasing  Dante  and 
Sappho  and  uniting  the  mood  of  religion  with 
the  beauty  of  the  world  about  him,  sings: 

"Ave  Maria !  blessed  be  the  hour ! 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

Sink  o'er  the  earth — so  beautiful  and  soft — 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower, 

Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 
And    yet    the    forest    leaves    seemed    stirred    with 
prayer. 

Ave  Maria !  'tis  the  hour  of  prayer ! 

Ave  Maria !  'tis  the  hour  of  love ! 
Ave  Maria !  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above ! 
Ave  Maria !  oh  that  face  so  fair ! 

Those    downcast    eyes    beneath    the    Almighty 
Dove— 


324  iTHE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

What  though  'tis  but  a  pictured  image  strike? 
That  painting  is  no  idol, — 'tis  too  like. 

Oh,  Hesperus !  thou  bringest  all  good  things — 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 

To  the  young  bird  the  parents'  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabored  steer ; 

Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear, 

Are  gathered  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 

Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's  breast. 

Soft  Hour!  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the 
heart 

Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 
When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn  apart ; 

Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 
As  the  far  bell  of  Vesper  makes  him  start, 

Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay; 
Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns? 
Ah !  surely  Nothing  dies  but  Something  mourns !"  * 

Who  can  respond  to  this,  perhaps  the  most 
beautiful  passage  in  all  Byron,  and  not  find, 
ever  after,  deeper  beauty  in  the  evening  hour 
and  deeper  meaning  in  the  meditations  it 
brings  ? 

*  Byron,  Don  Juan,  canto  III,  stanzas  CII — CVIII. 


ART  FOR  LIFE'S  SAKE  325 

Equally  does  art  reveal  to  us  the  world  of 
ideals.  In  form  and  spirit,  conduct  and  char- 
acter, it  portrays  concretely  types  lifted  above 
the  world,  toward  which  we  must  ever  aspire. 
Further,  it  raises  us  to  the  circle  and  company 
of  the  elect.  We  learn  to  live  in  daily  com- 
munion with  the  great  masters,  until  Dante 
and  Beethoven,  Goethe  and  Michael  Angelo 
seem  closer  to  us  than  persons  we  meet  in  the 
street. 

Thus  supremely  for  the  appreciative  student 
art  is  for  life's  sake.  Its  end  is  not  adorn- 
ment or  didactic  teaching,  it  is  not  to  impress 
us  with  technical  skill  and  the  mastery  of  dif- 
ficulties, it  is  not  to  give  sensuous  pleasure  or 
aesthetic  satisfaction ;  it  is  for  life's  sake— =that 
we  may  possess  our  heritage,  grow  in  love  and 
wisdom,  ever  toward  the  fuller  achievement  of 
life. 

If  this  is  the  end  for  the  appreciative  stu- 
dent, how  much  more  so  is  it  for  the  creative 
artist.  All  the  phases  of  the  ministry  of  art 
he  experiences  in  even  higher  measure.  The 
healing  and  exalting  influences  of  beauty  are 
his  to  the  full.  If  appreciation  of  beauty 
clarifies  the  mind  and  gives  mastery  of  concep- 


326  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

tions,  how  much  more  does  its  creation.  If  the 
student  is  inspired  to  action,  the  artist  grows 
in  the  immediate  field  of  his  expression.  Each 
achievement  is  but  the  vantage-ground  to  a 
new  effort,  and  there  is  no  limit  to  the  possible 
growth  in  power  to  achieve  and  to  appreciate 
the  work  of  others.  When  Michael  Angelo, 
taking  the  seventeen  feet  of  marble  injured 
and  rejected  by  other  sculptors,  glad  as  a 
youth  to  work  with  so  splendid  a  piece,  la- 
bored so  faithfully  that  his  heroic  statue  of 
David  issued,  faultlessly  posed,  from  the  stone, 
it  was  not  merely  one  more  beautiful  statue 
for  the  square  or  hall  of  Florence;  it  was 
that  Michael  Angelo,  through  the  one  achieve- 
ment, had  grown,  not  only  in  mastery  of  his 
art,  but  in  his  power  to  enter  into  the  work 
of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  and  of  his  Italian 
contemporaries  and  predecessors.  Further, 
how  the  artist's  eyes  are  unsealed  to  the  beauty 
of  the  world,  his  ears  set  in  tune  with  the  music 
of  things.  What  must  he  not  see  of  the  spec- 
tacle of  life  and  of  its  ideals,  after  years  of 
effort  to  express  and  interpret  its  phases?) 

For  every  great  artist,  therefore,  art  has 
been  a  way  of  life,  a  means  of  realizing  his 


ART  FOR  LIFE'S  SAKE  327 

own  potential  humanity.  Dante,  with  life 
tragically  cut  off  in  love  and  vocation,  exiled 
from  the  city  he  loved  so  well  and  criticised  so 
harshly,  learning  all  the  bitterness  of  "climbing 
other  people's  stairs"  and  eating  the  "too  salt" 
bread  of  patronage,  wandering  homeless  from 
city  to  city,  settling  in  the  late  years  at  Ra- 
venna— even  then  stagnant  in  its  marshes  be- 
side the  Adriatic  Sea — wandering  with  bent 
head  and  slow  step  under  her  pine  forest,  lis- 
tening to  the  whisper  of  God  in  the  music  of 
the  moving  boughs,  and  brooding  over  all  that 
life  had  failed  to  give  him — Dante  turns  to 
art  and  makes  of  it  another  way  of  life,  finding, 
in  his  own  creation  of  the  Divine  Comedy,  the 
truth,  beauty,  love,  moral  harmony  and  peace 
the  world  had  failed  to  give  him. 

Michael  Angelo,  too  vast  in  genius  for  the 
age  in  which  he  lived,  bruised  by  a  succession 
of  artistic  tragedies,  loving  late  and  knowing 
the  pain  of  separation  through  death,  lofty  and 
alone,  writhing  his  soul  out  in  Dantesque  son- 
nets— Michael  Angelo,  through  all  his  strug- 
gles and  sufferings,  found  in  art — to  use  his 
own  image — the  means  of  shaping  from  the 
marble  of  experience  the  statue  of  character. 


328  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

Beethoven,  shadowed,  as  we  have  seen,  by 
a  somber  childhood,  saddened  by  bitter  strug- 
gles and  long-delayed  recognition,  thwarted 
in  opportunity,  cursed  at  the  moment  of 
achievement  with  the  loss  of  the  very  sense 
through  which  his  art  could  be  enjoyed — Beet- 
hoven found  in  the  creation  of  music,  even 
when  he  could  no  longer  hear  it  with  the  outer 
ear,  a  way  of  life  through  which  his  own  ideal 
self  might  be  realized. 

Goethe  said  that  all  his  works  were  but 
"fragments  of  a  great  confession,"*  and  rec- 
ognized that,  more  than  all  his  poetry,  his  life 
was  his  greatest  work  of  art.  Browning,  per- 
haps more  fully  than  any  one  else,  developed 
in  The  Ring  and  the  Book  the  view  that  the 
artist,  taking  the  elements  of  God's  world, 
remolds  them  into  his  own  world,  thus  grow- 
ing up  toward  that  image  of  God  in  which  he 
is  potentially  rather  than  actually  made;  and 
Browning  lived  his  philosophy.  Thus  while 
the  lesser  men  have  often  dedicated  themselves 
to  art,  subordinating  life  to  its  expressions,  the 
great  masters  have  always  found  in  art  a  way 

*  Dichlung  und  Wahrheit,  Bohn  Library  translation,  vol. 
I,  p.  240. 


ART  FOR  LIFE'S  SAKE  329 

of  life,  a  means  of  growing  up  toward  their 
own  ideal  of  manhood,  becoming  the  men  God 
meant  them  to  be.  For  them,  supremely,  art 
has  always  been  for  life's  sake. 

Must  this  crowning  value  of  art  be  reserved 
for  those  alone  whom  the  world  calls  artists? 
Fortunately  not ;  for  there  is  one  supreme  fine 
art  to  which  all  are  called — the  art  of  living. 
There  is  no  aspect  of  life  that  cannot  be  made 
in  some  measure  fine  art.  Take  the  simplest 
forms  of  hand  labor:  it  has  been  the  cry  of 
all  leaders  in  the  Arts  and  Crafts  movement, 
from  Emerson  and  Ruskin,  through  William 
Morris,  to  the  teachers  of  our  own  day,  that 
beauty  should  not  be  added  to  utility  after- 
ward, but  identified  with  it  in  the  making,  that 
there  should  be  no  artificial  combination  of  use 
and  beauty,  but  the  useful  should  be  created 
as  art.  If  that  is  possible  in  artisan  work,  how 
much  more  is  it  in  the  deepest  aspects  of  life. 
As  there  is  no  honest  vocation  that  cannot  be 
made  a  fine  art,  so  every  aspect  of  personal  re- 
lationship is  a  problem  of  ever  fresh  artistic 
adjustment  of  one  personality  to  others.  If 
art  is,  as  we  have  seen,  the  adequate  and  har- 
monious expression  and  interpretation  of  some 


330  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ART 

phase  of  mans  life  in  true  relation  to  the  whole, 
what  aspect  of  life  is  there  that  may  not  be 
made  a  fine  art? 

Thus  the  service  of  art  to  the  human  spirit  is 
not  limited  to  the  few,  but  is  universal  for  all. 
Every  one  may  be  and  ought  to  be,  not  only  a 
loving  and  appreciative  student  of  the  fine 
arts,  but  a  creative  artist  in  the  form  and  color, 
the  melody  and  harmony  of  life;  and  for  stu- 
dent and  artist  alike,  art  is  not  for  adornment's 
sake,  or  preaching's  sake,  or  pleasure's  sake, 
not  for  the  sake  of  gratifying  the  senses  or  ex- 
hibiting technical  skill,  not  for  art's  sake,  but 
for  life's  sake. 


BOOK   LIST 

The  following  list  is  not  intended  to  furnish  a  general  bibliog- 
raphy, but  merely  to  suggest  to  the  student  a  selection  of  im- 
portant works  bearing  on  the  problems  considered  in  this  volume. 

Ambros,  Wilhelm  August,  The  Boundaries  of  Music  and  Poetry, 

translated  by  J.  H.  Cornell.     Pp.  xiii+187.     G.  Schirmer, 

New  York,  1893. 
Anderson,   Rasmus   B.,    Norse   Mythology.    Pp.    473.    S.    C. 

Griggs  &  Co.,  Chicago,  1875. 
Anderson,  Rasmus  B.   (translator),    The    Younger  Edda.     Pp. 

302.    S.  C.  Griggs  &  Co.,  Chicago,  1880. 
Aristotle,    The   Poetic,   translated   by   Theodore   Buckley,   pp. 

405-500  in  volume  with  Aristotle's  Rhetoric.     Bohn  Library, 

George  Bell  &  Sons,  London,  1890. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  The  Study  of  Poetry,  pp.  1-55  in  Essays  in 

Criticism,   second  series.     The   Macmillan   Co.,    New   York, 

1906. 
Babbitt,  Irving,  The  New  Laokoon.     Pp.  xiv-f  259.     Houghton, 

Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1910. 
Baldwin,  James,  The  Book-Lover.     Pp.  201.     Jansen,  McClurg 

&  Co.,  Chicago,  1885. 
Bascom  John,  Philosophy  of  English  Literature.     Pp.  xii+318. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York,  1886. 

Bates,  Arlo,  Talks  on  the  Study  of  Literature.     Pp.  260.     Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1898. 
Beeching,  H.  C.,    The  Study  of  Poetry.     Pp.  57.     University 

Press,  Cambridge,  1901. 
Bradley,  A.  C.,  Poetry  for  Poetry1  s  Sake.     Pp.  32.     Clarendon 

Press,  Oxford,  1901. 

331 


332  BOOK  LIST 

Briton,  Halbert  Hains,  The  Philosophy  of  Music.    Pp.  xiv+252. 

Longmans,  Green,  &  Co.,  London,  1911. 
Brown,  G.  Baldwin,   The  Fine  Arts.    Pp.  xii+321.     Charles 

Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1906. 
Browning,  Robert,  Abt  Vogler;  With  Charles  Avison  (in  Par- 

leyings  with  Certain  People);  Master  Hugues  of  Saxe^Gotha; 

Saul,  in  Works.    Camberwell  edition,  T.  Y.  Crowell  &  Co., 

New  York,  1898. 
Bulfinch,  Thomas,  The  Age  of  Chivalry.    Pp.  viii+414.     Crosby, 

Nichols  &  Co.,  Boston,  1859. 
Bulfinch,  Thomas,  The  Age  of  Fable,  edited  by  E.  E.  Hale.     New 

edition.     Pp.  xxi+568.     S.  W.  Tilton  &  Co.,  Boston,  1894. 
Cafifin,  Charles  H.,  How  to  Study  Pictures.     Pp.  xv+513.     The 

Century  Co.,  New  York,  1906. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  The  Hero  as  Divinity,  pp.  1-41  in  Heroes  and 

Hero-Worship.    Centenary  edition.     Charles  Scribner's  Sons, 

New  York,  1897. 
Carpenter,  Edward,  Angels'  Wings:  A  Series  of  Essays  on  Art 

and  Its  Relation  to  Life.     Pp.  248.     Swan  Sonnenschein  & 

Co.,  London,  1898. 
Collins,  John  Churton,  The  True  Functions  of  Poetry,  pp.  263- 

291  in  Studies  in  Poetry  and  Criticism.     George  Bell  &  Sons, 

London,  1905. 
Combarieu,  Jules,  Music:   Its  Laws  and  Evolution.  Pp.  viii 

+334.    D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York,  1910. 
Corson,  Hiram,  The  Aims  of  Literary  Study.     Pp.  153.     The 

Macmillan  Co.,  New  York,  1895. 
Cox,  George  W.,  An  Introduction  to  the  Science  of  Comparative 

Mythology   and   F oik-Lore.    Pp.   xvi+380.     Henry   Holt   & 

Co.,  New  York,  1881. 
Cox,  George  W.,  The  Mythology  of  the  Aryan  Nations.     2  vols., 

pp.  xx+460  and  xv+397.    Longmans,  Green,  &  Co.,  London, 

1870. 
Crawshaw,  W.  H.,  The  Interpretation  of  Literature.     Pp.  x+235. 

The  Macmillan  Co.,  New  York,  1902. 


BOOK  LIST  333 

Crawshaw,  W.  H.,  Literary  Interpretation  of  Life.    Pp.  viii+266. 

The  Macmillan  Co.,  New  York,  1900. 

Dabney,  J.  P.,  The  Musical  Basis  of  Verse.    Pp.  x+269.    Long- 
mans, Green,  &  Co.,  London,  1901. 
Davies,  Henry  M.,   The  Musical  Consciousness.     (In  Music, 

vol.  XII,  pp.  25-38,  171-180,  329-341,  462-472.) 
Donaldson,  John  William,  The  Theatre  of  the  Greeks.    Pp.  xii+ 

435.     George  Bell  &  Sons,  London,  1891. 
D wight,    John   S.,    Intellectual   Influence  of  Music.     (In    The 

Atlantic  Monthly,  vol.  XXVI,  pp.  614-625.)     Boston,  Nov., 

1870. 
Dwight,  John  S.,  Music  as  a  Means  of  Culture.     (In  The  Atlantic 

Monthly,  vol.  XXVL,  pp.  321-331.)     Boston,  Sept.,  1870. 
Eastman,  Edith  V.,  Musical  Education  and  Musical  Art.    Pp. 

171.     Damrell  &  Upham,  Boston,  1893. 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  Art,  pp.  325-343  in  Essays,  first  series. 

Houghton,  Miffiin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1883. 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  Art,  pp.  39-59  in  Society  and  Solitude. 

Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1898. 
Engel,  Carl,  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  National  Music.    Pp. 

x+435.    Longmans,  Green,  &  Co.,  London,  1886. 
Fairbanks,  Arthur,   The  Mythology  of  Greece  and  Rome,  with 

Special  Reference  to  its  Influence  on  Literature.   Pp.  xvii+408. 

D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York,  1907. 
Gayley,  C.  M.   (editor),  Classic  Myths  in  English  Literature. 

Pp.  xlv+540.    Ginn  &  Co.,   Boston,   1894. 
Goddard,  Joseph,  Reflections  upon  Musical  Art  Considered  in  its 

Wider   Relations.    Pp.  viii+87.    Goddard  &  Co.,  London, 

1893. 
Goethe,  Conversations  with  Eckermann  and  Soret,  translated  by 

John    Oxenford.    Pp.    xxvii+583.    Bohn    Library,    George 

Bell  &  Sons,  London,  1901. 
Goethe,  The  Maxims  and  Reflections  of,  translated  by  T.  Bailey 

Saunders.    Pp.  223.    The  Macmillan  Co.,  New  York,  1893. 


334,  BOOK  LIST 

Goethe,  Travels  in  Italy,  translated  by  A.  J.  W.  Morrison  and 

Charles  Nesbit.     Pp.   589.     Bohn   Library,   George   Bell  & 

Sons,  London,  1892. 

Goldziher,  Ignaz,  Mythology  among  the   Hebrews  and  its   His- 
torical  Development,  translated  by  Russell  Martineau.     Pp. 

xxxv +457.     Longmans,  Green,  &  Co.,  London,  1877. 
Grosse,  Ernest,    The   Beginnings  of  Art.     Pp.   xiv+327.     D. 

Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York,  1897. 
Guerber,  H,  A.,  Myths  of  Greece  and  Rome.     Pp.428.     American 

Book  Co.,  New  York,  1893. 
Guerber,  H.  A.,  Myths  of  Northern  Lands.     Pp.  319.     American 

Book  Co.,  New  York,  1895. 
Gummere,  Francis  B.,  The  Beginnings  of  Poetry.     Pp.  x+483. 

The  Macmillan  Co.,  New  York,  1901. 
Gummere,  Francis  B.,  A   Handbook  of  Poetics.     Pp.  vi+250. 

Ginn  &  Co.,  Boston,  1885. 
Gurney,  Edmund,  The  Power  of  Sound.    Pp.  xi+559.    Smith, 

Elder,  &  Co.,  London,  1880. 
Hamerton,  Philip  Gilbert,  The  Intellectual  Life.    Pp.  xix+455. 

Roberts  Bros.,  Boston,  1891. 
Hamerton,  Philip  Gilbert,  Thoughts  About  Art.    Pp.  xxiv+383. 

Roberts  Bros.,  Boston,  1878. 
Hanchett,  Henry  G.,  The  Art  of  the  Musician:  A  Guide  to  the 

Intellectual    Appreciation    of    Music.     Pp.    viii+327.     The 

Macmillan  Co.,  New  York,  1905. 
Hand,  Ferdinand,  ^Esthetics  of  Musical  Art;  or,  the  Beautiful  in 

Music,  translated  from  the  German  by  Walter  E.  Lawson. 

Pp.  xviii+187.    London,  1880. 
Hanslick,  Dr.  Eduard,  The  Beautiful  in  Music,  translated  by 

Gustav  Cohen.    Novello,  Ewer  &  Co.,  New  York,  1891. 
Hegel,  Georg  Wilhelm  Friedrich,  Introduction  to  the  Philosophy 

of  Fine  Art,  translated  by  B.   Bosanquet.     Pp.  xxxiii+175. 

Kegan  Paul,  Trench  &  Co.,  London,  1886. 
Helmholtz,  Hermann  L.  F.,  On  the  Sensations  of  Tone  as  a  Physio- 
logical Basis  for  the  Theory  of  Music,  translated  by  Alexander  J. 

Ellis.    Pp.  xix+576.    Longmans,  Green,  &  Co.,  London,  1885. 


BOOK  LIST  SS5 

Henderson,  W.  J.,  What  is  Good  Music?    Pp.  xiii  +205.    Charles 

Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1905. 
Holden,  Florence  P.,  Audiences:  A  Few  Suggestions  to  Those 

Who  Look  and  Listen.     A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago,  1896. 
Holmes,  Edmond,  What  is  Poetry?    Pp.  98.     John  Lane,  New 

York,  1900. 
Hugo,  Victor,  William  Shakespeare,  translated  by  Melville  B. 

Anderson.    Pp.  24+424.    A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago,  1899. 
Kerst,  Friedrich  (compiler  and  annotator),  Beethoven:  The  Man 

and  the  Artist,  as  Revealed  in  His  Own  Words,  translated  and 

edited  by  Henry  Edward  Krehbiel.     Pp.  1 10.     B.  W.  Huebsch, 

New  York,  1905. 
Kerst,  Friedrich   (compiler  and  annotator),  Mozart:  The  Man 

and  the  Artist,  as  Revealed  in  His  Own  Words,  translated  and 

edited  by  Henry  Edward  Krehbiel.     Pp.  143.     B.  W.  Huebsch, 

New  York,  1905. 
Knight,  William,  The  Philosophy  of  the  Beautiful.    2  vols.     Pp. 

xv+288  and  xii+281.     John  Murray,  London,  1891-3. 
Kobbe,  Gustav,  How  to  Appreciate  Music.    Pp.  275.     Moffat, 

Yard  &  Co.,  New  York,  1906. 
Krehbiel,  Henry  Edward,  How  to  Listen  to  Music.    Pp.  xv+361. 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1897. 
Kufferath,   M.,  Rhythm,    Melody  and    Harmony.      (In   Music, 

vol.  XVII,  pp.  31-39,  155-163.)     Chicago,  1899,  1900. 
LaFarge,   J.,   Considerations  on   Painting.     Pp.   vi+270.     The 

Macmillan  Co.,  New  York,  1901. 
Lanier,   Sidney,   Music   and   Poetry.    Pp.   viii+248.    Charles 

Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1899. 
Lanier,  Sidney,  The  Science  of  English  Verse.    Pp.  315.     Charles 

Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1901. 
Leighton,  Lord,  Addresses  Delivered  to  the  Students  of  the  Royal 

Academy.    Pp.  310.    Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  Trubner  &  Co., 

London,  1896. 
Lessing,  G.  E.,  Laokoon,  pp.  1-169  in  Laokoon,  etc.,  translated 

by  E.  C.  Beasley  and  Helen  Zimmern.     Bohn  Library,  George 

Bell  &  Sons,  London,  1900. 


336  BOOK  LIST 

Lewes,  George  Henry,  The  Principles  of  Success  in  Literature. 

Pp.  xv +235.     Walter  Scott,  London,  n.  d. 
Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright,  Books  and  Culture.    Pp.  279.    Dodd, 

Mead  &  Co.,  New  York,  1896. 
Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright,  Essays  on  Nature  and  Culture.    Pp. 

326.     Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  New  York,  1896. 
Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright,  Short  Studies  in  Literature.     Pp.  vi 

+201.     Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  New  York,  1892. 
Mach,  Edmund  von,  Greek  Sculpture;  Its  Spirit  and  Principles. 

Pp.  xviii+359+xl.     Ginn  &  Co.,  Boston,  1903. 
Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  Le  Morte  Darthur,  edited  with  introduc- 
tion by   Sir   Edward   Strachey.    Pp.   lvi+509.    The   Mac- 

millan  Co.,  New  York,  1901. 
Mathews,  W.  S.  B.,  How  to   Understand  Music.     2  vols.,  pp. 

216+87    and    viii+208.    Theodore    Presser,    Philadelphia, 

1886,  1888. 
Mathews,  W.  S.  B.,  Music:  Its  Ideals  and  Methods.     Pp.  iii +225. 

Theodore  Presser,  Philadelphia,  1897. 
Matthews,  Brander,  A   Study  of   Versification.    Pp.  vii+275. 

Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co.,  Boston,  1911. 
Morison,  John  H.,  The  Great  Poets  as  Religious  Teachers.     Pp. 

200.     Harper  &  Bros.,  New  York,  1886. 
Morris,  William,  Hopes  and  Fears  for  Art.    Pp.  217.     Roberts 

Bros.,  Boston,  1882. 
Moyse,  Charles  E.,   Poetry  as  a  Fine  Art.     Pp.  79.    Elliot 

Stock,  London,  1883. 
Miinsterberg,  Hugo,  The  Principles  of  Art  Education.     Pp.  114. 

The  Prang  Educational  Co.,  New  York,  1905. 
Newman,  John  Henry,  Poetry,  with  Reference  to  Aristotle's  Poetics. 

Pp.  x+36.     Ginn  &  Co.,  Boston,  1891. 
Norton,  Edwin  Lee,  The  Intellectual  Element  in  Music,  pp.  167- 

201    in  Studies   in    Philosophy   and  Psychology.     Houghton, 

Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1906. 

Noyes,  Carleton,  The  Enjoyment  of  Art.    Pp.  xiii+101.    Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1903. 


BOOK  LIST  337 

Palgrave,  Francis  Turner  (editor),  The  Golden  Treasury  of  the 

Best  Songs  and  Lyrical  Poems  in  the  English  Language.     Series 

I,  pp.  381;  series  II,  pp.  xii+275.    The  Macmillan  Co.,  New 

York,  1896,  1897. 
Palgrave,  Francis  Turner,  Poetry  Compared  with  the  Other  Fine 

Arts.     (In  Littell's  Living  Age,  vol.  CLXXI,  pp.  259-267; 

vol.  CLXXIII,  pp.  579-589.)     Boston,  1886,  1887. 
Parry,  C.  Hubert  H.,  The  Evolution  of  the  Art  of  Music.    Pp. 

x+342.    D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York,  1906. 
Parry,  T.  Gambier,  The  Ministry  of  Fine  Art  to  the  Happiness 

of  Life.    Pp.  viii+368.    John  Murray,  London,  1886. 
Partridge,  William  Ordway,  Art  for  America.    Pp.  192.     Roberts 

Bros.,  Boston,  1894. 
Plato,  The  Republic,  translated  by  B.  Jowett.    Books  II  and  III. 

Oxford  University  Press,  1892. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  The  Rationale  of  Verse  and  The  Poetic  Prin- 
ciple, pp.  209-292  in  vol.  XIV  of  Works,  edited  by  James  A. 

Harrison.    Thomas  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.,  New  York,  1902. 
Posnett,    Hutcheson   Macauley,    Comparative    Literature.    Pp. 

x+402.    D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York,  1886. 
Pryde,  David,  Highways  of  Literature.    Pp.  156.    Funk  &  Wag- 
nails,  New  York,  n.  d. 
Puffer,  Ethel  D.,   The   Psychology  of  Beauty.    Pp.  vii+286. 

Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1906. 
Raymond,  George  Lansing,  Art  in  Theory.    Pp.  xviii-f-266.     G. 

P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York,  1894. 
Raymond,  George  Lansing,   The  Essentials  of  ^Esthetics.    Pp. 

xix+404.    G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York,  1906. 
Raymond,   George   Lansing,    The  Genesis   of  Art-Form.    Pp. 

xxii+311.     G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York,  1893. 
Raymond,  George  Lansing,  Painting,  Sculpture,  and  Architecture 

as    Representative   Arts.     Pp.    xxxv+431.     G.    P.    Putnam's 

Sons,  New  York,  1895. 

Raymond,  George  Lansing,  Poetry  as  a  Representative  Art.    Pp. 
xv +346.    G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York,  1886. 


338  BOOK  LIST 

Raymond,  George  Lansing,  Rhythm  and   Harmony  in  Poetry 

and  Music.    Pp.  xxxvi-f-344.     G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New 

York,  1904. 
Ritter,  Frederic  Louis,  Music  in  Its  Relation  to  Intellectual  Life; 

Romanticism  in  Music.    Pp.  98.    Edward  Schuberth  &  Co., 

New  York,  1891. 
Rodin,  Auguste,  Venus:  To  the  Venus  of  Melos,  translated  by 

Dorothy  Dudley.     Pp.  26.     B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York,  1913. 
Ruskin,  John,  Aratra  Pentelici;  Elements  of  Sculpture.     Pp.  xi-|- 

181.     John  Wiley  &  Sons,  New  York,  1886. 
Ruskin,  John,  Lectures  on  Art.    Pp.  202.     Merrill  &  Baker,  New 

York,  n.  d. 
Ruskin,  John,  Modern  Painters.    5  vols.,  pp.  lxxiii+429,  xiii-f- 

230,  xii+341,  403,  and  xiv+390.     Merrill  &  Baker,  New 

York,  n.  d. 
Ruskin,  John,  The  Two  Paths:  Lectures  on  Art.    Pp.  xvii  +270. 

Maynard,  Merrill  &  Co.,  New  York,  1893. 
Saint-Saens,  Camille,   The   Nature  and  Object  of  Music.     (In 

Music,  vol.  V,  pp.  557-572.)     Chicago,  March,  1894. 
Santayana,  George,  The  Elements  and  Function  of  Poetry,  pp. 

251-290  in   Interpretations  of  Poetry  and  Religion.    Charles 

Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1900. 

Schiller,  Friedrich,  Essays  dEsthetical  and  Philosophical,  trans- 
lated from  the  German.     Pp.  435.     Bohn  Library,   George 

Bell  &  Sons,  London,  1905. 
Schopenhauer,  Arthur,  The  Art  of  Literature,  translated  by  T 

Bailey  Saunders.     Pp.  xiv+149.     The  Macmillan  Co.,  New 

York,  1891. 
Schopenhauer,  Arthur,  The  Metaphysics  of  Fine  Art,  pp.  125- 

140  in  Religion  and  Other  Essays,  translated  by  T.   Bailey 

Saunders.     Swan  Sonnenschein  &  Co.,  London,  1891. 
Schopenhauer,  Arthur,  On  the  Metaphysics  of  Music,  pp.  155- 

177  in  Wagner's  Beethoven.     William  Reeves,  London,  1880. 
Shairp,  John  Campbell,  Aspects  of  Poetry.    Pp.  x+401.     Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1882. 


BOOK  LIST  339 

Shairp,  John  Campbell,  Poetic  Interpretation  of  Nature.     Pp. 

x+279.     Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1882. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  A  Defence  of  Poetry.    Pp.  1-41  in  Essays 

and  Letters,  edited  by  Ernest  Rhys.     Walter  Scott,  London, 

1886. 
Sidney,  Philip,  Defense  of  Poesy,  edited  by  Albert  S.  Cook.     Pp. 

xlv+143.     Ginn  &  Co.,  Boston,  1890. 
Spencer,  Herbert,  The  Origin  and  Function  of  Music.    Pp.  401- 

451  in  Essays,  vol.  II.     D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York,  1892. 
Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence,  The  Nature  and  Elements  of  Poetry. 

Pp.  xx +338.     Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co.,  Boston,  1892. 
Sturgis,  Russell,  The  Appreciation  of  Pictures.     Pp.  308.     The 

Baker  &  Taylor  Co.,  New  York,  1905. 
Sturgis,  Russell,  The  Appreciation  of  Sculpture.     Pp.  235.     The 

Baker  &  Taylor  Co.,  New  York,  1904. 
Surette,  Thomas  Whitney,  and  Mason,  Daniel  Gregory,  The 

Appreciation  of  Music.     Pp.  xi+222.     The  Baker  &  Taylor 

Co.,  New  York,  1906. 
Taine,  H.,  Lectures  on  Art,  translated  by  John  Durand.     2  voLs., 

pp.  354  and  540.     Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1889. 
Tolstoy,  L.  N.,  What  is  Art?    translated  by  Charles  Johnston. 

Pp.  iii+298.     Henry  Altemus,  Philadelphia,  1898. 
Van  Dyke,  John  C.,  Art  for  Art's  Sake.    Pp.  xii+249.     Charles 

Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1893. 
Van  Dyke,  John  C.,  How  to  Judge  of  a  Picture.    Pp.  168.     Chau- 

tauqua  Press,  Chautauqua,  N.  Y.,  1888. 
Van  Dyke,  John  C.,  The  Meaning  of  Pictures.     Pp.  xiv+161. 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1903. 
Van  Dyke,  John  C.,  Principles  of  Art.     Pp.  291.     Fords,  Howard 

&  Hulbert,  New  York,  1887. 
Vinci,  Leonardo  da,  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  Note-Books,  arranged 

and  rendered  into  English  with  introductions  by  Bdward 

McCurdy.     Pp.    xiv+289.     Charles    Scribner's    Sons,    New 

York,  1908. 
Vinci,  Leonardo  da,  A  Treatise  on  Painting,  translated  by  J.  F. 

Rigand.    Pp.  lxvii+238.     George  BeU  &  Sons,  London,  1906. 


340  BOOK  LIST 

Wagner,  Richard,  Art  Life  and  Theories  of,  selected  from  his 

writings   and   translated    by    Edward   L.    Burlingame.     Pp. 

xiii+305.     Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1904. 
Wagner,  Richard,  Beethoven,  translated  by  Edward  Dannreuther. 

Pp.  viii  +  177.     William  Reeves,  London,  1880. 
Warner,  Charles  Dudley,  The  Relation  of  Literature  to  Life.    Pp. 

320.     Harper  &  Bros.,  New  York,  1897. 
Waterhouse,  C.  H.,   The  Signification  and  Principles  of  Art. 

Pp.  154.    J.  S.  Virtue  <fe  Co.,  London,  1886. 
Wilde,  Oscar,   The  Critic  as  Artist,  pp.  85-196  in  Intentions. 

Thomas  B.  Mosher,  Portland,  Me.,  1904. 
Wilde,   Oscar,    The  Soul  of  Man    Under  Socialism.     Pp.   90. 

Thomas  B.  Mosher,  Portland,  Me.,  1905. 
Winchester,  C.  T.,  Some  Principles  of  Literary  Criticism.     Pp. 

xii+352.     The  Macmillan  Co.,  New  York,  1899. 
Witt,  Robert  Clermont,  How  to  Look  at  Pictures.    Pp.  xviii + 173. 

George  Bell  &  Sons.,  London,  1902. 


INDEX 


AESCHYLUS,    27. 

Amazon  of  the  Villa  Mattei, 
160,  161. 

Ambros,  Wilhelm  August,  188, 
212,  320. 

America,  interest  in  Art  in, 
7,  8. 

Angelico,  Fra,  84-86,  118,  125. 

Angelo,  Michael,  27,  28,  31, 
111-113,  118,  125,  147,  206, 
264,  325,  326,  327;  Creation 
of  Adam,  221,  222,  269 ;  Last 
Judgment,  176-179,  279; 
sculpture  for  the  tombs  of 
the  Medici,  36,  156,  161-165, 
193. 

Architecture,  relation  to  na- 
ture of  forms  in,  199,  200; 
mathematical  laws  in,  199; 
compared  with  music,  199- 
205,  207,  208;  sensuous  ap- 
peal, 201,  203;  conceptions 
given,  202,  203;  aesthetic  ap- 
peal, 202,  203;  relation  to 
the  emotions,  202,  203. 

Aristotle,  288. 

Art,  misconceptions  of,  8-17, 
35,  36;  regarded  as  adorn- 
ment, 9-11;  regarded  as  di- 
dactic teaching,  11-13;  re- 
garded as  exhibiting  tech- 
nical skill,  14-17;  for  life's 
sake,  17,  18,  325-330;  meth- 
od in  study  of,  18,  19,  315- 
318;  unifying  principle  in, 
21-30,  267,  268;  expression 


of  common  basis  through 
personality,  30-35,  41-43;  lim- 
itation in  form,  31-35;  rela- 
tion of  form  to  content,  35- 
39,  52,  53,  296;  regarded  as 
pleasing  the  senses,  35-39, 
277,  280-282;  portrayal  of 
the  repulsive  in,  38,  39; 
definition  of,  39,  54,  55;  rela- 
tion to  nature,  41-50,  310, 
311;  idealism  in,  41-54;  real- 
ism in,  41-44,  81,  82;  law  of 
restraint,  48,  49;  relation  to 
religion,  57-59 ;  confession  of 
the  artist  in,  98-101;  in- 
terpretation of  the  epoch, 
122,  123;  proof  of  unique 
function  in  each,  143,  144, 
147,  148;  Plato's  theory  of, 
269,  270;  degeneration  of, 
277,  278;  the  nude  in,  279, 
280;  right  attitude  in  student 
of,  280,  283,  284,  285;  rela- 
tion to  philosophy,  290-292; 
ministry  to  the  human  spirit, 
321-325. 

Artist,  the,  withdrawal  from 
life  necessary  to,  12,  13;  ex- 
pression of  human  life 
through  personality  of,  30, 
31;  confession  of,  in  art,  98; 
relation  to  the  epoch,  118- 
120,  125,  126,  138,  139;  rela- 
tion to  the  race,  138,  139 ;  his 
need  to  appreciate  all  the 
arts,  142;  attitude  necessary 


341 


342 


INDEX 


to,  278-280;  degeneration  of, 
281-283;  ministry  of  art  to, 
325-330. 

Arts,  evolution  of  the,  57,  274; 
interrelation  of  the,  267,  268. 

( 

BACH,  Johann  Sebastian,  51, 
264. 

Bacon,  Francis,  137. 

Bailey,   Henry  Turner,  295. 

Bastien-Lepage,  Jules,  53,  311; 
Les  Foins,  183. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  124. 

Beauty,  convention  in  appre- 
ciation of,  292,  293;  elements 
determining,  294-299 ;  in  na- 
ture, 301-303;  in  art,  301-303, 
310,  311;  educating  appre- 
ciation of,  301,  305,  311-314; 
ministry  to  the  human  spirit, 
303-305;  study  of,  in  nature, 
305-310;  study  of,  in  art, 
315-318. 

Beethoven,  14,  16,  27,  28,  51, 
82-84,  102,  197,  200,  213,  216, 
264,  265,  311,  320,  325,  328; 
Moonlight  Sonata,  218,  219; 
Ninth  Symphony,  51,  206, 
207,  223. 

Beowulf,  poem  of,  76,  132,  137. 

Berlioz,  Hector,  216. 

Botticelli,  125,  217. 

Bresbroech,  J.  Van,  167. 

Browning,  258,  270,  289,  328, 
329;  Abt  Vogler,  200,  223- 
225;  Epilogue  to  Asolando, 
87-98,  129,  130,  137,  142;  Fra 
Lippo  Lippi,  241,  242. 

Burns,  Robert,  21,  322;  Lament 
for  Culloden,  33,  34. 

Byron,  323,  324. 

CARLYLE,  Thomas,  9,  56,  261. 
Castagnola,     G.,     painting     of 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi  and  Lucre- 

zia  Buti,  241. 


Cellini,   Benvenuto,  125. 
Chapu,    Henri,   statue   of  Joan 

of  Arc,  165,  166. 
Chopin,  13,  21,  28,  29,  51,  101, 

205,     256,    257;     Impromptu, 

203-205. 
Cimabue,  124. 

Collins,  William,  Ode,  33,  34. 
Composite   arts,   203,  227,   270- 

274. 
Constable,     Henry,    Diaphenia, 

251-253. 

Cormon,   Fernand,   265. 
Corot,  47,  51,  179,  180,  193,  236, 

294,  311,  312,  315. 

DAMPT,  J.,  167. 

Dante,  31,  38,  51,  52,  118,  176, 

178,   206,  217,   220,   250,  251, 

258,   263,  264,   273,  311,   321, 

325,  327. 

Dawn,  Hymn  to  the,  22-25. 
De  Quincey,  Thomas,  90,  261. 
Diction,   in   poetry,  36,   37,  89, 

131-133,  248,  249,  255,  260;  in 

primitive  art,  76. 
Dolci,  Carlo,  125. 
Dubois,  E.,  167. 
Dvorak,  216. 

EDDA,  the  Elder,  65,  72-75. 

Emerson,  118,  119,  120,  294, 
304,  329. 

Emotions,  the,  relation  of 
sculpture  to,  154,  155,  157, 
158,  161,  164-169;  relation  of 
painting  to,  176,  178,  179, 
180,  182,  183,  184,  185,  209, 
210;  appeal  of  music  to,  194, 
195,  196,  197,  204,  205,  206, 
207,  210,  211,  281-284;  ap- 
peal of  poetry  to,  249,  250- 
265;  relation  to  the  intellect, 
219-227,  273,  274,  281-284; 
relation  of  architecture  to, 
202,  203. 


INDEX 


343 


Epoch,  the,  causes  determi- 
ning, 115-177;  types  of,  117, 
118;  relation  of  the  artist  to, 
118-120,  125,  126;  interpreted 
in  art,  122,  123;  life-history 
of,  122,  123;  relation  of  the 
race  to,  138,  139. 

Erasmus,  292,  293. 

FITZGERALD,  Edward,   262,  263. 
Flaxman,  John,  217. 
Freiligrath,   F.,  250. 
Fresco  painting,  146,  147,  173, 
174. 

GHIBERTI,  bronze  doors,  172, 
173. 

Giotto,   124. 

Goethe,  10,  11,  12,  13,  56,  80, 
103,  104,  114,  118,  128,  200, 
270,  300,  325,  328;  Faust,  10, 
31,  207,  208,  209,  217,  269, 
278,  303,  304,  311;  Wilhelm 
Meister,  12. 

Gounod,  Faust,  208,  209. 

Great  Stone  Face,  the,  238-240. 

Green,   Thomas   Hill,  288,  289. 

HARRIS,  W.  T.,  176,  218. 
Heine,  28,  29. 
Henderson,  W.  J.,  188. 
Homer,   32,    76,    132,   217,   232, 

236,  269. 
Hugo,    Victor,    261,    286,    291, 

320. 

Hugues,  Jean,  167. 
Humanity  in  modern  art,  121, 

122,   166,    167,   183,   184,  312, 

313. 


N,  54. 

Idealism  in  art,  41-55;  selec- 
tion of  material  and  point  of 
view,  41-44;  lifting  nature  to 
fuller  expression,  44-48;  law 
of  restraint,  48,  49;  carrying 


out  the  laws  of  life,  49,  50; 
principle  of  atmosphere,  50, 
51;  treatment  of  phases  of 
life  in  true  relation,  52-54. 

Imagery,  in  poetry,  89,  94,  231, 
232,  236,  237,  255,  258-260. 

Intellect,  the,  appeal  of  sculp- 
ture to,  152,  157,  161,  164, 
166;  appeal  of  painting  to, 
175,  177,  182,  209,  210,  241; 
appeal  of  architecture  to, 
202,  203;  relation  of  music  to, 
194,  195,  196,  204,  205,  206- 
209,  211;  appeal  of  poetry 
to,  229,  234,  235,  242,  249, 
263;  relation  to  the  emotions, 
219-227,  273,  274,  281-284. 

JOB,  poem  of,  21. 

KAUFFMAN,    Reginald    Wright, 

54. 

Khayydm,  Omar,  262,  263. 
Kingsley,  Charles,  Alton  Locke, 

12. 
Klinger,  Max,  bust  of  Salome, 

167,  168. 

LANDSCAPE  painting,  122,  242, 
243. 

Langland,  W.,  137. 

Lehmann,  Liza,  263. 

Leopardi,  13. 

Lessing,  9;  Laokoon,  8,  170, 
228,  232,  233,  240,  241. 

Life,  human,  unity  of,  23-30, 
267,  301;  as  universal  basis 
of  art,  25,  26;  interpreted 
through  personality,  34,  35; 
relation  to  philosophy,  287- 
292;  relation  to  nature,  297- 
299;  art  as  a  means  to  the 
appreciation  of,  321,  322;  as 
a  fine  art,  329,  330. 

Lippi,  Fra  Lippo,  84-87,  125. 

Liszt,  216. 


344 


INDEX 


Longfellow,  279. 
Loti,  Pierre,  261. 
Lowell,   131,  132. 
Luke,  St.,  290. 

MAETERLINCK,  Maurice,  54. 

Marlowe,  123. 

Masterpieces,  unity  in  impres- 
sion of,  26-29 ;  compared  with 
primitive  art,  60. 

Meissonier,  Friedland,  180T, 
180-183,  233. 

Mendelssohn,  216. 

Meter,  in  poetry,  36-39,  89-92, 
94,  95,  248,  249,  252,  253,  255, 
256. 

Milan  cathedral,  200. 

Millet,  47,  53,  184,  311;  the 
Shepherd  Returning  with  his 
Flock,  312,  313,  316. 

Milton,  125,  222,  258. 

Morris,  William,  329. 

Mosaic  work,  144-146. 

Mozart,  28,  82-84,  102. 

Mueller,  F.  M.,  22,  60. 

Munkacsy,  Bringing  in  the 
Night  Rovers,  313. 

Murphy,  J.  Francis,  October 
Afternoon,  242,  243. 

Music,  difficulty  in  defining  for 
the  intellect,  189;  at  once 
primitive  and  appealing  to 
late  cultivation,  189-192; 
elements  of,  190-192,  204; 
rhythm,  190,  191,  194,  195, 
196,  197;  melody,  191,  194, 

195,  196,  197;  harmony,   192, 
194,    195;   timbre,    197;    rela- 
tion  to   nature   of   forms    in, 
192-198;   in    nature,   193-197; 
sensuous     appeal,     194,     195, 

196,  197,   204,  205,   206,   207, 
280;     aesthetic     appeal,     204, 

205,  206;     emotional    appeal, 
194,    195,   196,   197,    204,   205, 

206,  207,    210,    211,   280-284; 


relation  to  intellectual  con- 
ceptions, 194,  195,  196,  204, 
205,  206-209,  211;  the  scale, 
198;  compared  with  sculp- 
ture and  painting,  193,  198, 
199,  207-211,  220-226,  262- 
265;  compared  with  archi- 
tecture, 199-205,  207,  208; 
compared  with  poetry,  247, 
248,  256,  257,  262-265;  math- 
ematical laws  in,  199;  forms 
dynamic  in,  204,  207,  219 ;  in- 
tellectual analysis  of,  213- 
215;  methods  of  associating 
intellectual  conceptions  with 
appeal  of,  215-219;  inter- 
pretations of,  217-219;  treat- 
ment of  the  transcendent, 
222-225;  the  most  personal 
of  the  arts,  225,  226;  the 
most  social  of  the  arts,  226; 
summary  of  the  appeal  of, 
227;  danger  in  misuse  of, 
280-284. 

Music  drama,  the,  272-274. 

Mythology,  as  primitive  art, 
59,  60,  77;  preservation  of, 
59,  60;  types  and  subjects 
of,  60-65;  Aryan,  61-63; 
Semitic,  63-65;  vitality  of, 
65,  75,  76;  Volsung's  "Saga, 
65-77;  truth  of,  76;  use  by 
later  artists,  77,  78. 

NAPOLEON,   180-183,  218. 

Nature,  relation  of  art  to,  41- 
50,  310,  311 ;  in  primitive  art, 
61-63,  75,  76;  relation  of 
sculpture  to,  153,  164,  193; 
relation  of  painting  to,  175, 
179,  184,  193,  302,  303;  rela- 
tion of  music  to,  192-198; 
relation  of  architecture  to, 
199,  200;  beauty  in,  301-303; 
identity  of  form  and  content 
in  beauty  of,  302;  living 


INDEX 


345 


character  in  beauty  of,  302, 
303;  effect  on  the  spirit  of 
beauty  of,  303-305;  study  of 
beauty  in,  305-310;  art  as  a 
means  to  the  appreciation  of, 
322-324. 

Notre  Dame  cathedral,  202, 
203. 

Novel,  the,  42,  43. 

Nude  in  art,  the,  279,  280. 

Nymph  with  the  Infant  Bac- 
chus, 171. 

PAINTING,  transition  from 
sculpture  to,  171-174;  use  of 
color  in,  174;  limited  to  a  sin- 
gle moment  of  time,  174,  175, 
176,  177,  180-182,  184,  209, 
210,  242,  243;  relation  to  na- 
ture of  forms  of,  175,  179, 
184,  193,  302,  303;  sensuous 
appeal,  175,  177,  179,  182, 
184 ;  conceptions  expressed, 
175,  177,  182,  209,  210,  241, 
243,  262,  263;  aesthetic  ap- 
peal, 175,  176,  178,  179,  182, 
184,  209;  relation  to  the  emo- 
tions, 176,  178,  179,  180,  182, 
183,  184,  185,  209,  210;  use 
of  artistic  illusion,  175;  por- 
trayal of  action,  180-183; 
summary  of  the  appeal  of, 
185-187;  compared  with 
sculpture,  185-187;  compared 
with  music,  193,  198,  199, 
207-211,  220-226,  262-265; 
treatment  of  the  transcend- 
ent, 220-222;  compared  with 
poetry,  235-244,  257,  262-265; 
danger  in  misuse  of,  277-280. 

Pal  grave,   Francis  Turner,  317. 

(Parthenon,  the,  201,  202;  sculp- 
tures, 155-158,  171,  201. 

Phillips,   Stephen,  Ulysses,  32. 

Placidia,  Galla,  144. 

Plato,  246,  269,  270,  292. 


Poetry,  sensuous  appeal,  233, 
237,  247,  248,  250,  284;  con- 
ceptions expressed,  229,  234, 

235,  242,    249,    263;    aesthetic 
appeal,    233,    234,    237,    249, 
250;    emotional    appeal,    249, 
250-265;    appeal    to    the    im- 
agination,   229-232,    236,    237, 
243,    244,    249,   255,    258-260; 
compared      with      sculpture, 
229-235,    239-241,    257;    com- 
pared with  painting,  235-244, 
257,  262-265;  compared  with 
music,  220-226,  247,  248,  256, 
257,  262-265 ;  meter,  36-39,  89- 
92,  94,  95,  248,  249,  252,  253, 
255,  256;  diction,  36,  37,  89, 
131-133,    248,    249,    255,    260; 
rhyme,  89,  95,  248,  249,  256, 
260;    imagery,    89,    94,    231, 
232,    236,    237,   255,    258-260; 
method  of  portrayal,  231-233, 

236,  240,   243,   244;   associat- 
ing   interpretation,   234,    235, 
236,  237,  238,   240,   244,  263- 
265;  types  of,  257,  258,  260; 
treatment   of   the   transcend- 
ent,   220,    222;     relation    to 
prose,    261 ;    danger    in   mis- 
use of,  284,  285. 

Pompeian   frescoes,   173,   174. 

Primitive  art,  sources  of,  57- 
65,  77;  religion  in,  58,  59; 
preservation  of,  59,  60;  com- 
pared with  later  master- 
pieces, 60;  vitality  of,  65,  75, 
76;  truth  of,  76. 

Program  music,  216,  217. 

Prudery  toward  art,  279. 

RACE,  the,  a  force  behind  art, 
129;  evident  in  language, 
131-134;  often  expressed  best 
in  one  art,  134,  135;  devel- 
opment of,  revealed  in  art, 
135,  136;  unity  of,  in  all  ex- 


346 


INDEX 


pressions,     136-139;     relation 

to  artist  and  epoch,  138,  139. 
Ramayana,  the,  21. 
Raphael,   27,   28,   31,    125,   303, 

321. 

Realf,  Richard,  302. 
Realism  in  art,  41-44,  81,  82. 
Relief  work,  171-174. 
Religion,   connection   with   art, 

57-59. 

Rembrandt,  303. 
Reni,  Guido,   125. 
Rhyme,  in  poetry,   89,  95,  248, 

249,  256,  260. 
Roger-Bloche,  Paul,  167. 
Ruskin,  John,  15,  145,  329. 


SAPPHO,  132,  133,  250,  323. 

Sarto,  Andrea  del,  21,  28,  29, 
98-101,  147. 

Savonarola,  179. 

Schiller,  9,  40,  114,  150,  246, 
266,  276,  286,  300,  320. 

Schopenhauer,  13,  40,  80,  286, 
300. 

Schumann,  216;  Arabesque, 
203-205,  206;  Frauenliebe 
und  Leben,  271,  272. 

Sculpture,  sensuous  appeal, 
151,  152,  157,  160,  161,  163, 
164,  166,  277,  278;  concep- 
tions expressed,  152,  157, 
161,  164,  166;  aesthetic  ap- 
peal, 152,  153,  157,  161,  164, 
166;  relation  to  nature  of 
forms  of,  153,  164,  193;  lim- 
ited to  one  moment  of  time, 
153,  164;  relation  to  the  emo- 
tions, 154,  155,  157,  158,  161, 
164-169;  planned  for  envir- 
onment, 156,  157,  161,  162; 
use  of  color  in,  158-160;  sum- 
mary of  the  appeal  of,  168, 
169,  185-187;  compared  with 
painting,  185-187;  compared 


with  music,  193,  198,  199, 
207,  208,  220-226;  treatment 
of  the  transcendent,  220, 
221 ;  compared  with  poetry, 
229-235,  239-241,  257;  danger 
in  misuse  of,  277-280. 

Shakespeare,  13,  34,  44,  45,  49, 
50,  52,  104-110,  123,  124,  125, 
206,  207,  258,  265,  269,  270, 
293,  311,  321;  sonnet,  243, 
244. 

Shaw,  Bernard,  54,  279. 

Shelley,  13;  Ozymandias  of 
Egypt,  230-235,  236,  237,  248, 
249,  255;  To  the  Night,  205, 
253-257. 

Sidney,  Philip,  137. 

Sinclair,   Upton,   53. 

Song,  203,  271-273. 

Sophocles,  27,  28;  Antigone, 
25,  26. 

Spencer,  Herbert,  57,  116. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  34,  137,  258- 
260. 

Spinoza,  273,  292. 

Stanley,  H.  M.,  292. 

Strozzi,  G.,  162,   163. 

Sudermann,  54. 

Symonds,  J.  A.,  277,  278. 

TAINE,  H.  A.,  136,   137. 

Tennyson,  36,  78,  137,  258,  289, 
290;  Crossing  the  Bar,  87- 
98,  129,  130;  In  Memoriam, 
36-38. 

Theater,   the   modern,   48,    49. 

Theodoric,   145. 

Tintoretto,  Adam  and  Eve, 
174-176. 

Titian,  51,  193,  303. 

Trench,  R.  C.,  133. 


VEDDER,  Elihu,  262,  263. 
Venus    de    Milo,    47,    151-155, 
193. 


INDEX 


347 


Verlaine,  Paul,  284. 

Vinci,  Leonardo  da,  9,  11,  118, 

123,   125,   140,    150,   170,   206, 

214,  276. 
Volsungs,  Story  of  the,  65-77. 


WAGNER,  9,  10,  13,  16,  20,  31, 
56,  78,  104,  128,  140,  188,  191, 
197,  212,  213,  214,  246,  265, 
276,  284;  Overture  to  Tann- 


hauser,  225,  226;  theory  of 
the  music  drama,  272-274; 
Tristan  und  Isolde,  223,  263, 
264;  Die  Walkiire,  210,  211. 

Ward,  Mrs.  H.,  288. 

Watts,  G.  F.,  263,  264. 

Wilde,  Oscar,  54,  82,  282,  284. 

Wordsworth,  132,  289,  304; 
sonnet,  46,  47;  Upon  West- 
minster Bridge,  235-238,  249, 
250. 


HANDBOOKS  TO   COURSES  OF  LECTURES 
BY  MR.    GRIGGS 

HUMAN    PROGRESS 

THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    PLATO    AND    ITS 
RELATION    TO    MODERN    LIFE 

GREAT    AUTOBIOGRAPHIES 

THE    POETRY    AND    PHILOSOPHY 
OF    BROWNING 

MORAL    LEADERS 
SHAKESPEARE 

THE    POETRY    AND    PHILOSOPHY 
OF    TENNYSON 

GOETHE'S    FAUST 

THE    ETHICS    OF    PERSONAL    LIFE 

THE    DIVINE    COMEDY    QF    DANTE 

ART    AND    THE    HUMAN    SPIRIT 

Each  contains  an  introductory  note,  illustrative  extracts, 
outlines  of  the  lectures,  book  references  and  list  of  topics  for 
the  study  and  discussion  of  each  lecture,  and  a  carefully  se- 
lected bibliography.  The  handbooks  are  of  the  utmost  value 
to  classes  in  literature  and  ethics,  study  clubs,  reading  circles, 
etc.  The  cloth  bound  editions  contain  blank  leaves  for  the 
user's  notes. 

CLOTH  COVERS:  each,  50  cents  net;  by  mail,  54  cents 
PAPER  COVERS:  each,  25  cents  net;  by  mail,  27  cents 

B.  W.  HUEBSOH  PUBLISHER  NEW  YORK 


BOOKS  BY  EDWARD  HOWARD  GRIGGS 

MORAL  EDUCATION.     FIFTH  EDITION. 

12mo,  cloth,  $1.60,  net;  by  mail,  $1.72 

A  discussion  of  the  whole  problem  of  moral  education:  its  aim  in 
relation  to  our  society  and  all  the  means  through  which  that  aim. 
can  be  attained.  The  parent,  teacher  and  general  reader  will  find 
the  book  easy  reading,  and  study-clubs,  classes  and  reading  circles 
will  appreciate  its  adaptability  to  their  needs.  An  invaluable  bib- 
liography with  annotations  is  included. 

THE  NEW  HUMANISM.    SIXTH  EDITION. 
12mo,  cloth,  $1.50,  net;  by  mail,  $1.60 

Ten  closely  integrated  essays  interpreting  the  modern  spirit  and 
developing  the  ideals  of  the  new  ethical  and  social  humanism  which 
occupies  in  our  time  the  place  held  by  the  aesthetic  and  intellectual 
humanism  in  the  earlier  Renaissance. 

A  BOOK  OF  MEDITATIONS.     FIFTH  EDITION. 
12mo,  cloth,  $1.50,  net;  by  mail,  $1.60 

A  volume  of  personal  reflections,  sketches  and  poems  dealing  with 
life  and  art;  an  autobiography,  not  of  events  and  accidents,  but  of 
thoughts  and  impressions.  Frontispiece  portrait  by  Albert  Sterner. 

THE  USE  OF  THE  MARGIN.    FOURTH  EDITION. 

(In  The  AH  of  Life  Series) 
12mo,  cloth,  50  cents,  net;  by  mail,  55  cents 

The  author's  charm  as  a  public  speaker  is  here  transferred  to  the 
printed  page.  His  theme  is  the  problem  of  utilizing  the  time  one 
has  to  spend  as  one  pleases  for  the  aim  of  attaining  the  highest 
culture  of  mind  and  spirit.  The  book  contains  also  an  introduction 
to  the  series. 

HUMAN  EQUIPMENT :    ITS  USE  AND  ABUSE. 

(In  The  Art  of  Life  Series) 
12mo,  cloth,  50  cents,  net;  by  mail,  55  cents 

This  deals  compactly  with  the  problem,  so  acutely  important  in 
our  money  mad  society,  of  the  right  use  of  things — the  relation  of 
man,  individually  and  collectively,  to  the  tools  and  equipment  of 
civilization.  The  style  is  forceful  and  convincing,  and  the  book  is 
full  of  wise  suggestion  for  right  living. 

B.  W.  HUEBSCH  PUBLISHER  NEW  YORK 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  priod  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

REC'DLD   SEP  2  2 '  U  'II  PM  7  2 


LD21A-60m-8,'70 
(N8837slO)476— A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


LD  2lA-40m-4,'63 
(D6471slO)476B 

IN  STACKS 


General  Library 
University  of  California 


Ifcj 


, ,  , 


'  IA/I-^ 


SITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


